


Gallifrey Records: The Human Nature EP

by cereal, gallifreyburning



Series: Gallifrey Records [17]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:51:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyburning/pseuds/gallifreyburning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Doctor loses his memory, Rose is left to help him pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  


Rose Tyler sits in the office chair in front of the neurologist’s desk, staring blankly at the framed pictures arranged on the bookshelf behind the woman’s head — in one, she’s smiling and holding two little boys; in another, she’s beaming on top of a cliff with her arm around a handsome bloke, her husband or partner, probably. A happy, normal woman; a happy, normal bloke; a happy, normal life.

The neurologist herself sits at the desk, her face somber now, no trace of a smile to be found. A patient file is spread out in front of her, films and x-rays and scans of every conceivable type, all accompanied by notes in indecipherable handwriting, like some sort of alien script.

“Spit it out, then!” Donna barks from behind Rose. She’d refused a chair, when the neurologist ushered them into her office; she’s been pacing non-stop for the last five minutes, a frantic counterpoint of movement to Rose’s paralyzed sense of dread. “A full day’s worth of tests, medical fees higher than the GDP of a small country, surely you’ve got something in that file to tell us!”

The neurologist leans forward, practiced sympathy in her every expression and movement. “Considering the possible causes of the problem, what I have to tell you is basically good news.”

Rose frowns, her dry eyes stinging and hot. “The Doctor can’t remember my name, can’t remember who I am, and you’re telling me there’s some good news in all of this?”

“He doesn’t have any abnormal growths, and there’s no damage whatsoever to his brain tissue. That’s part of the good news. The Doctor’s suffering from a condition called transient global amnesia. It’s usually triggered by migraines, especially if they’re compounded with profound stress.”

Donna has stopped pacing, Rose hears her grow very still. If there’s one word to describe Rose and the Doctor’s existence in the last few months, it’s stress, and Donna knows it. In every single aspect of their lives, nothing has gone quite right in a long while. They’ve both been overbooked, overworked, overwhelmed. And the Doctor had been bearing through it all with his usual flippant attitude — on the surface, at least — even though Rose could see the exhaustion underneath, even though he refused to talk about his frustration and disappointment. And then two days ago, the news about Sarah Jane came, and the Doctor had clammed up even tighter.

“While he’s suffering from this condition, the amnesia shouldn’t affect most of the Doctor’s long-term memories or his personality. He still knows his own name, and could probably tell you where he was born and his parents’ names. He can still perform complex learned tasks like driving a car or shopping at the market. Only a few of his long-term memories appear to have been affected, and he’s unable to create new short-term memories, the way he repeats his statements and questions with the same intonations and gestures, like a skip on a record.

“But he’s going to be disoriented in time and space, perhaps not knowing the year nor the location where he resides. And it’s going to make him upset, as you’ve seen — when he senses things are out of place, that he’s out of place, he might get perturbed. Emotional.”

“Is this permanent?” Rose says, her lips hardly moving, the words hardly a whisper.

“That’s the other good news,” the neurologist replies, the corners of her mouth lifting in a flat smile that’s likely meant to be reassuring. Donna’s fingers rest on Rose’s shoulder, squeezing gently, and Rose reaches up to hold her hand. “The condition is almost always temporary, and should correct itself, given time. There’s only a five percent chance of this sort of amnesia ever recurring again. What the Doctor needs now is a peaceful, calm environment where he can carry out as much of a normal life as he’s capable of, until his brain recovers.”

“How long?” Rose says.

The neurologist shrugs. “A few weeks, probably; at the most a few months. It depends.”

“There isn’t a pill or a procedure or something?” Donna asks. “Acupuncture or aromatherapy or a rabbit’s foot? Anything to bring him back right now?”

The neurologist shakes her head. “It’s a matter of waiting.”

“A calm environment,” Rose says, turning to look up at Donna. “We can’t take him back to the flat, not until everything’s fixed.” A water leak last week meant a good portion of the drywall and all of the floors were being replaced; their home was a chaotic construction zone. She doesn’t even entertain the idea of taking him to Jackie’s mansion; she can only imagine what a nightmare that would be, having to re-introduce the Doctor to her mother every few minutes. “What are we going to do?”

Donna stares down at her, drawing in a slow breath, her grip on Rose’s hand tightening and her face shifting into an expression Rose knows well: project management mode. “I’m going to clear out both of your schedules, cancel your appearances for as long as necessary. And in the meantime I know a place for you both, a perfect little village. It has all the peace and quiet the Doctor could need.”

~~~~~

The Doctor swings his legs back and forth as he sits on the examination table, waiting for Donna to return. Well, Donna and Rose, but he’s not as keen for Rose to return.

She seems like a nice woman, very pretty, and he understands he’s supposed to know who she is, but he doesn’t. And the searching, pained looks she keeps throwing him aren’t helping anything.

He keeps his legs elevated on the next pass, extended all the way, and he can see his trainers, the sloppy knots he tied in the laces before they left for the doctor’s.

It seems weird – frustrating – that he can remember how to do that, remember loads of things, actually, but not this woman he apparently loves. Or the last couple of years he spent with her.

There hadn’t been much time between the forgetting and now, but it’s been long enough for him to realize something is very, very wrong. He trusts Donna with his life, and if Donna is this concerned about anything, it’s never good.

Not that he’d have taken the loss of his memory lightly, not exactly, but Donna – and Rose, he has to remember to think about her, too – shuffling him right off to a neurologist seems especially bad. He may also have gotten just a little, tiny, minuscule, bit upset. And maybe yelled some. But then, that’s normal, isn’t it? Told you’re missing years of your life? Little anger seems natural.

He wishes they would come back already, put a name on all of this and tell him it will be over soon. He’s just begun fantasizing about all the things it could possibly be when there’s a short knock on the door and it opens to reveal Donna and Rose.

They’d kept him away from the small office in the back, concerned whatever news was about to be delivered would be too traumatic and make things worse. It had seemed silly, because he was going to find out eventually, and now, with Donna giving him a small, tight smile, he can’t decide if it’s better or worse to hear it from her and not the doctor.

“Why don’t we go back to mine, Doctor?” Donna says, and gestures to the door. “We can explain everything there.”

He nods, and forces down a snap of irritation. He is a grown man, not some infant to be coddled, but in the middle of the neurologist’s office doesn’t seem like the place to make a scene. Especially not with the new album dropping soon. He’s pretty proud of this one actually, the ‘Suit Album,’ it’s got a nice ring to it.

Gesturing for Donna and Rose, who’s clutching a thick stack of papers, medical information, he’s sure, to go first, he follows them out.

The car ride back to Donna’s is quiet. They’d had the radio on at the start, but when the DJ had introduced a song apparently from him and Rose, Donna had shut it off with a forceful jab of her finger. Any lingering hope that this was all some elaborate prank had vanished then.

He spends the rest of the drive trying to remember what he knows of Rose Tyler. It’s not much really, just a few YouTube videos of her playing in small clubs, hardly the sort of artist you’d hear on Radio 1. Adam had fancied her a bit, and the Doctor had filed her away as someone to look into when it came time to book an opener for the tour to support the new album.

Clearly he’d gone on to look into her plenty, if they were recording singles together now.

Donna parks the car and they all pile out. Rose’s hand brushes his as they walk to Donna’s door and she yanks it back with an apologetic look. Right, hand-holding, that must have been something they did a lot of, must be normal, if they’re together.

Once they’re all settled in the living room, things get a little muddled. He takes in everything, all the information, the diagnosis, the plan, all of it, a current of rage rising steadily in his chest.

Well, everything’s all set then, isn’t it? Shuffle him off to some bloody little village and wait ‘til he gets better. There’s that sorted, hardly worth asking him what he wants to do.

“Doctor,” Rose says. “I know this must be hard for you. But you’re going to get better, it’s just a matter of time. And I’ll wait for – I’ll wait with you. Donna thinks she can get us on a plane tonight.”

He glances at Donna and she gives a small nod, “All the accommodations have been made. I’d go with you, really I would, but someone has to stay here, run the defense. Wouldn’t do to get you back to normal and everything’s gone to pot, would it?”

She’s right, they’re both right. He just has to wait it out.

~~~~~

Rose hates keeping secrets. Especially from the Doctor. Especially like this.

It’s for everyone’s own good, Donna had assured her. Standing in the kitchen just before the car arrived, Rose took Donna’s hands in her own and stared into her eyes, blinking back tears, and said, “Tell me. Tell me it’s the right thing to do. Because even if the neurologist says it’s temporary, it’s like I’ve lost him, and leaving her here now, even just for a few days, it feels like — it feels like both of them are slipping through my fingers.”

Donna’s confident face never wavers, her mouth set with firm resolve, but she can’t keep the fear and pain from her eyes. “This is the right thing to do. For him, and for her.”

“How can I leave without —” Rose sucks in a breath. “I haven’t even said goodbye.”

“You’ll call from the plane. Rose, Joanie’s with your mum. Besides you and the Doctor, there’s no one better to look after her. You’ll need these few days to get the Doctor settled, to ease him into normal life. Anyway, if Rock Boy’s really reverted back to his Suit Album days, take my word for it, you’re going to have your hands full. You don’t need a second toddler to look after.” She forces the words out with a smile, pulling Rose into a hug. Rose wraps her arms around Donna and leans into her, letting out a long, shaky breath and closing her eyes. Donna continues, “Just a few days, and we’ll bring her up to you. It won’t be long.”

Rose’s feet are numb, her legs trembling like the earth is shifting on its axis. Two days, alone with the Doctor who thinks she’s a stranger. Two days without Joanie.

Donna’s arms tighten around her. “You’re not alone,” she says, as though she can read Rose’s thoughts. “If it’s too much, any one of us is just a phone call away — Martha and me, we’ll drop everything and come running the minute you give a shout.”

“I can do this,” Rose says. The Doctor needs her, and she’ll move heaven and earth for him. She always has, she always will.

She loosens her grip on Donna and steps away. Just then, the intercom buzzes. The car has arrived.

The ride to the airport is full of thick silence, and the private plane ride isn’t much better. The Doctor makes few attempts at conversation, between restlessly rifling through all the seat-back pockets for reading material, calling to order a remote-controlled spider and some battery-heated slippers for Donna from Hammacher-Schlemmer, and charming all the peanuts away from the flight attendant. He’s polishing off his eleventh bag, swiping his long finger into the little foil package and licking the salt from his skin, when Rose excuses herself and makes a beeline for the lavatory.

She’s on her mobile before she even locks the door, punching in Jackie’s number.

~~~~~

The Doctor has nearly drifted off to sleep when the lavatory door clicks open. A woman walks out, beautiful and petite and blond. Her eyes are red, and she rubs her nose with the back of her sleeve before giving him a smile. It’s a brave one — he’d know the look on anyone — and he’s on his feet in an instant, walking down the aisle toward her. (They’re the only two on this plane? Must be the off season for … wherever it is they’re going.)

Something like relief flickers in her eyes at the sight of him, coming toward her.

He extends a paper cocktail napkin — covered in peanut crumbs, he realizes a second too late, but she takes it anyway — and he winks and says lightly, “Here now, I’ve been in some pretty dingy transports in my day — rickety old blue tour bus, most of the time — and surely the loo on this posh plane isn’t as bad as all that. Should we call the captain and complain?”

The relief in her eyes gutters out, and she crumples the napkin in her fist.

“No,” she says, and in spite of her red eyes there’s strength behind the word. She winks right back at him. “Not unless you think you could convince the captain to install a jetted bath before we land in half an hour. I’d kill for a nice hot soak.” Her gaze shifts to the overhead bin behind him as she seems to steel herself. “Don’t suppose you have a bath on that rickety blue tour bus of yours, do you? Maybe we ought to have taken that instead of the plane.”

He laughs, because while the TARDIS has many, many things, a nice tub isn’t one of them. Although, if that’s what it takes to get a woman like the one standing in front of him on board, he might just look into it.

“Where’s your seat?” He says, eyes scanning the empty cabin. He hopes it’s not too far from his, and if it is, that he can convince her to change it.

“I’m just there,” she says, and points at the row across from his. How had he not noticed her before?

He shuffles back up the aisle, ducking into his seat and leaving room for her to get into hers. As she sits down, he makes sure to keep eye contact, keep the lines of communication open. He’s not one for being the annoying, chatty bloke on planes, but – oh, who is he kidding? He is definitely one for being the annoying, chatty bloke on planes.

“So, have you been to – wherever it is we’re going before? Do you know where that is, actually? I can’t seem to remember. Working too hard, I guess.”

The woman’s face falls, just a tiny bit, but it’s still apparent.

“No, I haven’t been there,” she says, leaning forward. “Listen, I need to tell you something. I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell you, well, again, but –”

He nods for her to continue and a frankly unbelievable story comes pouring out, amnesia, and this woman, this Rose Tyler, she’s someone to him. Actually, if the way she’s speaking is anything to go by, it sounds like she’s everything to him.

The whole thing smacks of someone taking the piss. But who? Donna? Jack maybe? Slip him something, get him on a plane with a beautiful woman and have her spin a tale about “amnesia.” Next she’ll be telling him he’s the father of her child.

“Rose, if that’s your real name – wait, I recognize you, don’t I?” Her eyes lights up and, oh, that’s it, struggling new artist. Maybe she’s just signed with Gallifrey and this is some sort of hazing ritual. Could be Russell that put her up to it. “You’re a singer, aren’t you?”

She nods and he grins.

“Brilliant,” he says. “You can tell everyone I fell for this whole thing, and we can spend the rest of the flight talking about something else.”

She’s back to looking extremely sad, and he really doesn’t want her to cry again.

“Hey, come on, it’ll be all right. Go on, you can run through the rest of the joke. I’ll play along.”

She shakes her head, a fierce, sudden movement, like she’s just found a bucket of courage, “It’s not a prank, Doctor. This – this is our life.” Bending over to get her carry-on from under the seat in front of her, he watches as she removes a stack of papers and then passes them to him. He takes the paper and sees out of the corner of his eye that’s grabbed something else from her bag, it looks like a couple of photographs.

The papers are official looking, his name and diagnosis in an atrocious doctor scrawl. There’s computer-printed literature, too, all about the type of amnesia he’s supposedly got, and something twists in his gut as he reads. This is far too in depth for a prank – uncomfortably in depth.

“You’re – you’re telling the truth, aren’t you?” His voice comes out quiet and broken, the realization settling in.

She nods, handing him the photos, and he notices she keeps one back. They’re wrinkled and worn, the sort of damage that comes from keeping a photo with you everywhere you go.

The first is a shot of the two of them, his sideburns are a bit wider, and she’s got a few more roots showing than the woman sitting across the aisle, but it’s undoubtedly them. The two of them.

The second photo is them again, but surrounded by his friends, Jack and Donna, Adam, it looks like a wrap party, the lot of them in some pub somewhere, arms slung around each other. Rose is leaning up to kiss his cheek, and he’s beaming at the camera.

Oh.

“Sorry,” Rose mumbles, and it sounds like she wants to say more, like there’s something she’s keeping from him, but she doesn’t say it and he can’t find the strength to ask.

“I’m sorry, too,” he says, brushing it off, and handing her the pictures and papers back. “Do you mind if I – I’m knackered, and this is,” he gestures at the space around them, the empty plane, and then back and forth between the two of them. “I don’t know what this is. I’d like to have a kip.” She gives him a small, sad smile and nods in agreement.

It doesn’t seem very polite, shutting out a woman who’s just told you that you and she are in love, but his head hurts, it hurts a lot, and he can’t be bothered to process all of it right now.

Maybe he’s still asleep on the plane. Maybe it’s like ‘Inception,’ Donna had warned him not to go see it again. That was – what? Last week? That’s frustrating, too, the inability to orient himself, order memories. Some sleep will do him good.

He shuts his eyes and wills it to come.

~~~~~

They arrive late at night, and even in the dark Rose can tell they’re in the quaintest of quaint villages, with a river bubbling alongside the picturesque downtown full of shops shut up for the evening.

The Doctor is quiet the entire ride to their cottage on the outskirts of the village. He’s pulled a little spiral notepad and pen out of his pocket — Rose has no idea where it came from, she’d swear those pockets were empty the last time she checked. But he’d insisted on wearing the pinstripes for this trip, and with that jacket in particular, Rose has come to expect any number of unexpected things. She’d hardly bat an eye if he dug in up to his elbow and came out with the kitchen sink.

He’s been watching their surroundings carefully, scribbling notes. She can feel him watching her out of the corner of his eye, too, not looking at her directly, as though seeing her properly makes him uncomfortable.

The neurologist said a month, Rose tells herself. She can do one month. After all, he put up with her hormonal mood swings while she was pregnant with Joanie, and that was nine whole months. The two aren’t precisely comparable, but this is what they do for each other, stick together no matter what.

Maybe it won’t be so bad if she stops thinking of him as the Doctor — if he’s just a bloke who needs help, just a John Doe she’s agreed to look after for a while, maybe that will make all of this more tolerable. Maybe they’ll both feel more comfortable, if she can lift the weight of expectation.

“John Doe” sounds practically criminal, though, like he’s a prison escapee without an identity or an unidentified hospital patient. One of the pseudonyms he uses to check into hotels under would be better.

Right, then. John Smith it is.

Rose takes the last turn on the winding road and pulls into the driveway of the little cottage. It’s as charming as the village, bougainvillea growing up one wall, thatched roof and manicured garden. It’s late winter, so nothing’s blooming yet, but the overall impression is still enchanting.

The two of them sit quietly in the car for a long moment, staring straight ahead. “It’s like we’ve stepped into a postcard,” Rose finally says.

“I did that once,” the Doctor replies, almost absently. He blinks and turns to meet her stare. “Well-l-l-ll, nearly did. Recorded a music video for a song of mine, the director used bluescreen behind the band and put in postcards in postproduction.” He grins. “That was before Donna came along to help me iron the kinks out of my brilliant video ideas.”

Rose knows the one; she’s teased him about it before. “That pink lei and straw hat you wore for the Hawaii postcard montage was a good look on you. Highlighted the pink in your cheeks. Too bad you didn’t keep hold of it, you could pull it out for brunch on Sundays.”

“Oi, it’s a healthy glow,” he retorts with mock indignation, patting his stubbly cheeks with his palms, bringing up the color. “I’ll have you know, interviewers ask about my manly skin regimen all the time. Superior rock star genes.”

Rose lets out a snort of laughter. “I’m onto you, mister. You steal my moisturizer when you think I’m not looking.”

“I never!” The words slip out quickly, pitched a little bit high and accompanied by a genuine look of surprise.

For a split second, Rose had been the one to forget. Staring at his tousled hair and pinstripes, at his wide brown eyes shadowed by deep circles of exhaustion, she steels herself again, pulls that guard back up.

John Smith, it’s nice to meet you.

“C’mon, you get the luggage and I’ll find the key,” Rose says. “Donna told me it’d be somewhere by the door.”

The key is under the mat, and the cottage is cold and dark. Rose walks through a few rooms, switching on lamps. There’s only one bedroom, and the Doctor comes to a stop in the sitting room, staring at the king-sized bed through the door as though it’s a wild creature that might come charging out and attack him.

“I’ll take the couch,” Rose says, plucking her bag and guitar case from his hand. “You can have the bed.”

Something rigid in the line of his shoulders seems to snap, and he sags. It’s relief. “No, no I’ll take the couch. Plenty of pillows, a few fluffy quilts, this’ll be brilliant.” With sudden vigor, he’s bouncing around the room, pulling open closet doors in search of blankets.

They settle themselves in without much fuss. She could murder a cup of tea right now, or some chips, but this doesn’t look like the sort of place that keeps the shops open late. They’ll have to to run out for supplies in the morning.

She opens the suitcase she’s dropped in the bedroom, and even that’s a little bit painful. He’d bought it for her last year, striped and cute, big enough to still carry on, but with plenty of space to fit Joanie’s stuff, too. There’s a few outfits for her in there already, but most of the big stuff will come later, with her mum when she drops Joanie off.

The thought of that is equal parts comforting and terrifying – she misses Joanie intensely, and wishes she were here right now, but not like this, not with a version of the Doctor that doesn’t remember his daughter. Joanie’s second birthday is only five weeks away, and if she doesn’t have the Doctor back by then, she doesn’t know what she’ll do.

Stuffing that thought down, she changes into her pajamas and shuffles back into the living room. The Doctor is tucked up on the sofa, quilts lying over top of him and a pillow behind his head, but he looks less than comfortable.

“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay out here?” She asks and he jumps at the sound of her voice before shaking it off.

“Yeah, yeah, it’ll be fine,” he says. “Only – is there anything I should be doing? Memory games or something? Anything I can do to help get better?”

She wishes she had something to tell him, if this Doctor is anything like the current one, he’d go after any possibility relentlessly, practically willing it to happen. But there’s nothing like that for this.

“Just time,” she tells him, keeping her voice gentle. “Just a matter of time.”

~~~~~

The Doctor wakes to the unfamiliar chirping of birds, a slat of sunlight right across his eyes. It takes a second to remember where he is – and to remember there are things he can’t remember.

A coil of anger pools in his gut again, none of this seems like real life, and he supposes it isn’t, not if what Rose has said is true, and he hates being stuck in this limbo, unable to find his own way out.

A shower should help, should make him feel like himself, and he shifts the blankets off, rising from the sofa and heading to the bathroom.

The door is cracked, but not completely shut and he pushes it open to a thick cloud of steam.

And Rose Tyler standing in a towel.

“Oh! Uh. I’m sorry,” he stammers, but he’s not moving, why isn’t he moving? Instead his eyes are fixed on her, the smooth skin over the lines of her collarbone. There’s a small, fading bruise on her shoulder, just the right size for his mouth, and the back of his neck goes hot, realizing that it probably is from his mouth.

“Doctor,” Rose’s voice is loud in the small space, but she’s not yelling and she doesn’t seem angry. Amused maybe?

“Right, right,” he says and averts his eyes. “Was just gonna have a shower.”

She giggles and it’s such a pretty sound. Does he make her do that often? He hopes so.

“There might not be much hot water left,” she says. “Didn’t realize how long I’d been in there, and it started to cool down right at the end, sorry.”

He shrugs, eyes darting up for one more look at her as she scoots by him to the door. Her arm brushes his and there’s another rush of warmth, lower this time.

A cold shower might not be such a bad thing.

Half an hour later and they’re out to the shop. The trip starts out well enough, she drives them to the center of town and they find a grocery store easily.

She pushes the cart down the aisle and he can’t help but notice the way she’s adding all his favorite snacks without even having to ask. Of course she’d know that sort of thing, but still, it’s jarring, a total stranger that knows him so well.

They’re nearly done, heading up an aisle to the front to pay when his world flips again.

Clearly without thought, the movement so casual, she picks up a pack of diapers and deposits them in the cart.

He stops walking.


	2. Chapter 2

  
Rose is a few steps further along, reaching for a jar of pureed carrots, when she does the same as the Doctor. Freezes in her tracks mid-grab, fingers pulling away from the baby food like it’s given her an electric shock.

The Doctor shoves his hands into his trouser pockets, rocking back on his heels to gain momentum before he forces his feet to move, coming alongside her and staring down into the basket. “I managed to brush my own hair and teeth this morning, so you’re probably being a bit overcautious with the nappies. Anyway, that’s hardly my size, and purple isn’t my color. I can pull it off, sure, but I’m kind of doing this” — he shrugs, nearly nudging her arm with his shoulder — “pinstriped look now.”

Rose’s face has gone pale as a sheet, her lips white. She snatches her hand back to her side, briefly reaches for the nappies, then rests her hand on the basket handle instead. “We’ve got company coming later this week. Just stocking up on things they might need.”

The Doctor’s mind is moving a million miles a second, and there’s that irritation and anger churning in the pit of his stomach again, because she’s being so careful, like she’s going to break him if she puts a foot wrong. Coddling him. Shielding him. From what? What sort of life is he supposed to have with this woman, that she feels the need to hold things back? Does she do this normally — hide things from him? What sort of person has he got himself tangled up with? What sort of relationship is this?

Rose starts moving again, and the Doctor spins around, walking backward to face her. “Oh that’s brilliant, I love kids. Whose little one, then?” His eyebrows lift, and a broad grin spreads across his face, too many teeth behind it. He’s decided he won’t let her coddle him, no matter how hard she tries. “Not ours, is it?”

“Mickey and Martha had a daughter,” Rose blurts out, followed by a sigh.

The Doctor trips over his own feet, toppling backward, and ends up on his arse in front of a large man with a basket full of lager. Squinting up at him, the Doctor peers at his supply. “Hello, I’m the local … lager inspector. Making sure these bottles are up to snuff.”

The man’s eyes narrow right back at him, and something like recognition glimmers in them before they pop back open wide, his mouth making an O shape to match. His lips work silently, his finger pointing right down at the Doctor, and just as his vocal cords catch up with his mouth, Rose appears beside him.

“Hey, mate,” she cuts him off with a smile and a nod toward his cart. “This one’s on me. Just so long as …” She places her finger over her lips, mouth pouting in the most fetching manner, and the Doctor finds himself staring, speechless, as she shushes the man back to silence. She’s not pale anymore, she’s flushed and glowing, blond hair cascading across her forehead and hiding her features from almost everyone else as she helps him unload his cart, right beside their own groceries.

The man takes a moment to gather his wits, then whispers, “But he’s—! And you’re—!”

“You’re next in line,” Rose says, expertly herding him forward while she gestures for the Doctor to get up off the floor. He obeys, watching with fascination as she manages this bloke with the skill of a lion tamer. “I’m sure you’ve got somewhere fantastic to go tonight, what with the party supplies. Wouldn’t want to be late!”

“Are you really—?”

“Naaaah,” she replies, and the Doctor himself almost believes it. “If we were, d’you think we’d be out here in the back of beyond? It happens a lot, though, that mistake. We’re professional impersonators out for a job, that’s all.”

The bloke surveys her face, surveys the Doctor, and nods, his belief clicking into place. “Well, it explains the retro style on him. Don’t get me wrong, The Suit Album was beyond brilliant, but he hasn’t worn that getup in a while. Otherwise, you’re amazing, both of you!”

“Hold on,” the Doctor interjects, eyebrows drawn together. “Beyond brilliant? Really? You liked it?”

“Better than The White Album — I know it’s cliché, right from that Rolling Stone review, but everyone says so. I mean honestly, the things you two — well, not you two, the real you’s — put out together, it’s all right and everything, but if I’m being honest, the Doctor’s solo work has always been my favorite.”

The Doctor is beaming, and he reaches out the grasp the other man’s hand and shake it enthusiastically. “I am always honored to meet a fan. Better than The White Album? Cor, I never imagined — Rolling Stone said that? Really? What else did they say?”

Rose nudges him from behind, right in the ticklish dimple beside his spine, with such precision it’s as though she can see right through his clothes. He lets out a small yelp and leaps forward, propelling the large man right along, and still working like a lion tamer, Rose herds them both out of the store. She’s got a receipt in her hand — apparently she’d paid for all their groceries while he was talking.

“We’ve got a proper do planned for tonight, starting at eleven o’clock just down the street at the big house on the corner — you two would be the hit of the party, if you wanted to come! You’ll fool everyone into thinking you’re really — them! Anyway, it can’t hurt to have a lager inspector on the premises, in case someone calls a noise violation on us!” He elbows the Doctor in the ribs, and the Doctor makes a soft oof noise.

“Our night’s pretty booked up,” Rose interjects, just as the Doctor’s opening his mouth to accept the invitation. “Thanks ever-so.” With that, she shoves the basket to the Doctor and leads him away by the elbow.

“My name’s Craig!” the bloke shouts from halfway down the block, as though he’s just realized he hadn’t ever introduced himself. The Doctor waves back enthusiastically, but before he can shout back “I’m the Doctor” right down the street, Rose twirls him around and steps on his toes, and he’s fairly certain it was on purpose. While they’re loading the groceries into the boot of the car, she murmurs, “That was a close one.”

“It could be fun!” The words pop out so fast and so forcefully, the Doctor surprises even himself. Is that the sort of man he is now, one who turns down the opportunity to go to a party and entertain some people who enjoy his music? Does he avoid getting right into the thick of it at every turn?

Rose gives him a long look, shoves the last grocery bag into the boot, and reaches for his hand. Her fingers thread with his and she squeezes. “It’s cold enough, the milk will keep. There’s a pub across the street, and if I don’t get some chips, I’m going to die.”

“Oh. Life and death, is it?”

“Chips are always life and death, Doctor,” she replies, and he can’t tell whether her solemnity is mocking or not.

“I agree, but only if you tell me everything about Martha and Mickey, including how they happened to find themselves in possession of a baby,” the Doctor says.

Rose agrees and they finish walking to the pub and settle in, two separate baskets of chips between them. When she drowns hers in vinegar, he understands why.

It’s a nice enough story, the Mickey and Martha one. He only vaguely remembers Martha, months ago – or that’d be years now, wouldn’t it? – Russell handing him a stack of files to pick out a new tour physician for when they finally left. He’d narrowed it down to Martha and a woman with a distinctly feline face, from a Catholic hospital. Obviously it’s clear who he ended up going with. Probably for the best, that other woman gave him an uneasy feeling, even if her qualifications were impeccable.

It’s not the story he’s interested in though, it’s the way Rose’s face lights up as she tells it, pausing to give him a tongue-touched grin at the particularly funny parts, eyes sparkling at him like he’s the only bloke in the pub, the only bloke in the whole damn world, even.

If she pulls out that look a lot, he has no trouble believing he fell for her.

In fact, he might just do it again.

~~~~~

By the time they’re in the car and heading to the house, Rose feels slightly more relaxed. That’d been a massive slip up, back at the shop, and she doesn’t understand how she could’ve let it happen.

Joanie hasn’t even eaten baby food for months, and one of her new favorite tricks was shoving pieces of actual, un-puréed carrots right up the Doctor’s nose (something she suspects the Doctor may have even been encouraging, just for the giggle Joanie lets out every time she does it).

It was like some sort of autopilot, guiding her movements, putting her back into a life where things were comfortable and certain.

She can’t let it happen again. They’ve still got a day until her mum is supposed to arrive with Joanie, plenty of time to figure out what to do.

Once they’re back at the house, Rose realizes there are hazards everywhere. The telly, the magazines on the table, even her own bloody laptop, all of it a minefield. They’ve done a good job of keeping Joanie out of the public eye, but just last month they’d finally taken her to an event. A live show for one of those children’s television programs, all bright, fluffy characters and surprisingly catchy songs.

Joanie had only lasted half an hour, but they’d made a stop at the VIP reception to grab their party bag and there was a single picture they’d allowed, all three of them grinning toothily in front of the step and repeat. It was a rare enough shot that the photo was still making the rounds all over the internet, not to mention the Wikipedia entries for both she and the Doctor that mentioned Joanie.

No, she couldn’t let the Doctor online, and as he put away the groceries, she tore around the house looking for ways to entertain him. It was an uncomfortable thought, treating the Doctor like a child, but she just had to keep telling herself it was for his own good.

The hall closet ends up having a surprising amount of board games and she pulls a few out, hoping to appeal to the competitive streak she knows runs right through the middle of him.

She arranges them on the coffee table in the living room, taking a seat on the sofa, and when the Doctor joins her, his face lights up.

“You pick,” Rose says, and his grin grows wider as he lingers over the choices.

His eyes skate over the boxes and he seems to ponder the chess board for a while, and, oh, that’s his thinking face.

“Chess,” he finally says. “Only with a twist.”

Rose arches her eyebrows, they’d played a particularly dirty version of chess in a hotel room in Indiana once, but she has a feeling that’s not what he’s got in mind. Or is it?

“I’m listening,” she tells him.

“All right,” he claps his hands down on his thighs, “For every piece of yours I capture, you have to answer a question from me.”

A wave of panic rises in Rose’s stomach – can he tell she’s keeping something from him?

“What sort of questions do you have?” She forces herself to ask, “Thought I was being pretty forthcoming?”

He shrugs, “Those are the stakes. I’ll answer a question for you, too, if you’d like, although the odds of you getting a piece off me are low.”

“Oh, you’re on,” she says, pride getting the better of her.

It’s only when he’s taken her first pawn that she realizes just how terribly bad this could go. She waits with her breath held as he prepares his first question and it all comes out in a whoosh when he finally asks it.

“What other glowing praise did The Suit Album receive?”

She laughs and tells him everything she can remember.

The questions continue, mostly harmless, if not a little flirty, through two full games.

First kiss – “I seduced you in a hotel pool?”

First shag – “I seduced you in a pub?”

It’s a laugh and it takes them clear through to dinner. She offers to cook and he volunteers to help, delightedly throwing pasta noodles at the wall to see if they’re cooked.

They move to the living room to eat and Rose very deliberately suggests a movie, just to avoid any news programs speculating on their recent appearance cancellations and subsequent disappearance.

She’s got a handful of Pixar DVDs always stuffed into the front of her suitcase, usually more for the Doctor’s amusement than Joanie’s, and they settle on Toy Story.

Halfway through the Doctor abruptly begins telling her about his own favorite toy – a teddy bear that inexplicably stayed in the dorm he shared with the Master through all their years at the academy. He’s not even sure which one of them it really belonged to, or where it ended up.

Rose knows where the bear is – it’s on a shelf in Joanie’s room. But it’s a story she’s never heard before. He’d always been vague when she asked before, and she can’t believe it’s taken all this just to hear the truth. Although, given their history with the Master, it’s hardly surprising.

When the movie finally ends, it’s getting late, almost 11, and she heads back to the bedroom to put her pajamas on.

She calls down the hall on her way back, “What do you think, should we watch the second one?”

But instead of a smile and a nod, she’s greeted with the sight of the Doctor, her bag open on the table and the info on his condition spread out in front of him. He’s not looking at it though, he’s looking at the photo held tightly between his fingers, and Rose’s stomach drops to her knees.

“Sorry to go through your stuff,” he says, his eyes clear and dark. “Wanted to read up a bit more on the amnesia. Found something more interesting though,” and he turns the picture around to confirm what she already knew – she and the Doctor and Joanie, all wrapped around each other and smiling for the camera. It’s not the media shot from last month, it’s much more intimate than that, taken at her mum’s birthday party the very next day.

“That isn’t – it’s not –” she’s stammering, trying to figure out the best possible response, but he’s miles ahead of her.

“I remember Martha,” he says, and his tone is serious and low. “And that awfully inventive labor story you told in the pub seems to indicate she didn’t adopt. Tell me, Rose, does this look like Martha’s daughter?”

He points at Joanie in the photo, the soft, pale skin, the brown hair curling out along the bottom in crazy directions, the smile that already looks so much like Rose’s own, and the dimples that match the Doctor’s.

She swallows and shakes her head slowly.

“Whose daughter is she, Rose?” His eyes have shifted from the photo back to her, his gaze unwavering.

“You’re a great dad,” she blurts out, and her hands lift, trying to stop the words, stuff them back in her throat.

His face crumples, sad and angry and incredibly hurt. He turns the picture back toward himself, eyes tracing the lines of it before his finger follows the same path.

“Some great dad I am, can’t even remember her,” his voice is quiet and tense and she wants to comfort him, but the look he cuts her when she takes a step warns her off.

“I’m going out, going to that bloke’s party,” he says suddenly and stands, grabbing the keys from where she’d dropped them on the end table.

“Doctor, you can’t –”

He waves a hand at her and yanks his wallet from his pocket, sliding the driver’s license out.

“Still valid,” he says. “Haven’t forgotten how to drive, at least.”

And with that, he strides across the cottage, opening the door and slamming it firmly behind him.

~~~~~

The house is easy to find, right on the corner down from the market just like Craig had said. Fairy lights hang in the trees and across the front stoop, and shadows of people are visible through the brightly-lit windows.

The Doctor puts the car into park and lets the engine idle for a few minutes, watching. He isn’t nervous about walking into a house full of strangers — it’s a specialty of his, crashing parties. Well, crashing pretty much anything; royal christenings, presidential inaugurations, marriage proposals, KGB investigations, labor uprisings, Aboriginal funerals, he’s wormed his way into any and every sort of situation known to man. As a matter of fact, the idea of strutting into this party and making himself at home seems far less intimidating, and far more natural, than going back to the cottage where Rose is no doubt waiting for him, with her evasions and her expectations and the specter of this suffocating domestic life they’ve apparently built together.

He hasn’t even knocked on the door when Craig throws it open, huge grin on his face and a bottle of lager in both hands. “Ohhh, this is brilliant, no one believed me when I told them about you, I’m so glad you’re here!” Depositing a lager in the Doctor’s hand, he pulls him inside.

Instantly the center of attention, the Doctor is in his element. For the first time since all this madness started a few days ago, he feels like himself. And if it wasn’t for Craig going on and on about what a good celebrity impersonation he’s doing of the Doctor, it would be perfect. (On one hand, he gets it completely, the need to keep a low profile, to avoid having anyone call a media outlet and bring photographers down on this little village to document his amnesiac breakdown; on the other hand, it feels so reassuring to tell people he’s the Doctor, to be recognized and acknowledged in a way that feels natural and familiar.)

The house is full but not packed, the music is thumping through mediocre speakers, and at the first opportunity the Doctor makes a beeline for the stereo and begins tinkering. Wiring, audio levels, playback speed, he’s on his second beer when a woman slips into the corner beside him, looking him up and down.

“It’s remarkable, the resemblance,” she says. “You sure you aren’t the real Doctor’s long-lost twin or something?”

He glances up at her for a second before pulling the flathead screwdriver from between his teeth and using it to unfasten a second panel on the back of the stereo. “Could be. Six billion people on the planet, anything’s possible,” he replies, pulling his specs down from the top of his head onto his nose, squinting at the circuit board.

“Seven billion,” the woman corrects, taking a sip of lager.

He stares her, eyebrows shooting halfway up his forehead, bracing himself like he’s on the deck of a rolling ship. “What? Really?”

She nods, mouth curling into a smile. “So the census reports say, as of this year. I’m Joan, by the way. Joan Redfern.” She pauses. “You have a real name? Or is it just ‘Doctor’ tonight?”

“Just ‘Doctor’ will do,” he replies.

“Where’s your Rose, then? Craig won’t stop going on about the two of you, the Doctor and Rose at the market, the Doctor and Rose paying for his lager, you both made quite an impression on him.”

The Doctor darts his eyes down to his left hand, the absence of a wedding ring, not even a tan line to indicate he usually wears one. He vaguely remembers a ring on Rose’s hand, the way she’d twisted and fiddled with it while thinking over chess moves earlier, but it was a glittery diamond thing, no second band underneath it. Maybe they haven’t actually made it down the aisle.

His stomach churns briefly, can’t remember his daughter, can’t remember asking a woman to marry him, what good is he anyway? None of that even sounds like him.

“She’s not here,” he says. “And she’s not – we’re not – it’s complicated.”

Joan smiles, “I’ve seen seven complicated things today already, Doctor, and that sounds more like you’re having a bit of a domestic.”

He lets his eyebrows raise, a grin crossing his face, “And what complicated things have youseen today, Ms. Redfern?”

She laughs, “A bloke with third degree burns from chip oil, a woman who lost a toe in a sandals-on-the-escalator accident, and a little boy with 12 quid’s worth of change in his stomach. Shall I continue?”

The Doctor shakes his head, “No, that’ll do. Although I think if you heard the whole story, mine’s properly complicated, too.” He waves his free hand in the air, dismissing it. “Where did you see all these complicated things? Do you work in casualty or something?”

“Yep,” Joan says. “I’m a nurse.”

He takes a long sip of his beer, thoughts tumbling, and that churning in his stomach that still won’t slow. He wants to grab for something steady.

“A nurse and a Doctor,” he says. “We’re a natural pair.”

With a few quick twists of the screwdriver, he replaces the circuit board and fixes the panel back in place.

“Come on, Nurse Redfern, you can introduce me to some more people with complicated lives,” he says, and sticks his elbow out. She takes it and leads him back into the mass of people.

~~~~~

Rose talks herself into and out of going after him six separate times.

It’s only settled when remembers how she promised herself to look at the situation, and him – as a brand new man, as John Smith. And John Smith could forget where he is and why again at any moment.

Pulling her mobile from the bag still lying open on the table, she has herself connected to a taxi company.

Ten minutes later and the rough idling of the cab in the driveway matches perfectly to the roaring in her head.

She instructs the driver as best she can, directing him to the grocery store they’d visited and having him drive slowly until she locates the house with the party.

It’s not hard to find once they get close enough, music thumping clear and loud into the night, and Rose shoves a few extra notes at the driver when she catches him eying her in the rear view.

“I’m not her, mate,” she says and the cabbie looks at the money and back to her, nodding in acceptance.

She moves to knock on the door, but it’s opened just as she raises her hand, a skinny blond bloke staggering through it.

“Timothy, don’t puke in my flowerbed!” She hears Craig holler before he catches sight of her. “Rose! Or not-Rose! You came, too!”

It’s a bit of a relief, knowing the Doctor has made it here safely and she smiles at Craig.

“Yep,” she says. “Never could resist a good party.”

He crosses the crowd, the one noticeably missing the Doctor.

“Brilliant! Beer in the kitchen, and there are nibbles around here somewhere, although I think the Doctor got into them and did a proper job of it, too.”

Rose laughs, because that sounds exactly like the Doctor. The number of times her mum’s gotten after him for accosting waiters right as they come out of the kitchen at parties is too high to count.

She thanks Craig and moves further into the party, eyes scanning the room. It’s not like she has a plan for what she’s going to do when she finds him, she just knows she has to find him.

It takes a few more minutes, but she finally spots him, tucked up in a corner with a woman, and they’re looking at – CDs? She edges closer and recognizes what the Doctor’s got in his hands – it’s the liner notes from his first greatest hits album. The one released right before The Suit Album and full of drawings and hand-written lyrics collected from his entire career up until that point.

She loves those liner notes, the way they’re almost like a story, a journey of his life, doodles and scrawled words, and he’s pointing at them, telling this woman all about them with a light in his eyes.

Rose stands at the edge of the room, frozen. They’re leaning toward each other, the Doctor talking and gesturing with that unbridled enthusiasm she knows so well, the woman only half attending to the things he’s pointing at, more often her gaze sliding across his face, lingering on his eyes.

It was a mistake, keeping things from him. The crystal-clear realization hits Rose like a physical blow.

She had been afraid of doing more damage — after all, stress and overwork had brought all this on. She’d assumed that re-exposing him to those same stressful things would complicate the situation, make the amnesia worse. Springing Joanie and their domestic life on him too quickly, telling him the news about Sarah Jane again, Rose had been trying to shield him, create a void around him to keep him protected.

The Doctor, being the Doctor, is filling the void. He always has done, it’s as natural as breathing to him.

The woman plucks the CD from the Doctor’s hand, lightly stroking his palm as she scoops it away, and with a grin she leans across him toward the stereo. The thumping dance music cuts out as she opens the disc changer, and after a moment the strains of the Doctor’s song “Meanwhiles and Neverweres” come lilting out of the speakers.

The woman — dark blond hair folded up in an almost old-fashioned style atop her head, sharp features and bright blue eyes, she’s quite pretty, really — she grabs the Doctor’s hand and tries to pull him to his feet, her hips swaying ever so slightly. Rose can’t hear what she’s saying, but she’s obviously trying to talk him into dancing.

“Oi! Oi! Everybody! We’ve got the man here tonight, isn’t that right, Doctor?” Craig suddenly shouts from the couch, crammed in with at least eight people on a two-seater, a girl perched on his lap. “C’mon, sing for us! Isn’t that part of your celebrity impersonation schtick? Sing! Sing! Sing!”

Once Craig starts the chant, the others in the room pick it up, and the Doctor allows the woman to haul him up, making cut gestures near his neck with one hand and grinning like a maniac. He’s not nearly as opposed to the idea as he pretends, of course — Rose knows he’s in his element here. Normally, they’d both be in their element, feeding off the energy in the room, feeding off the energy from each other.

Still holding the Doctor’s hand, the woman pops up onto her toes and he leans his head down so she can bring her lips to his ear and whisper something. His grin widens, his eyes sparkling, and he nods.

Not once does he notice that Rose is in the room.

Rose has edged her way back to the nearest doorway — which happens to lead into the kitchen — and she slips away as the Doctor lifts his hands up, a plea for silence, and someone produces an acoustic guitar from thin air to shove into his arms. The blond woman settles down on the nearest chair, her leg practically touching his, and stares up at him with rapt attention. There’s a smattering of applause and encouraging hoots, the CD cuts out, and he starts strumming.

The sink’s full of ice and beer, and Rose grabs a bottle and uses the edge of the countertop to pop the top off before taking a long swig, just as the Doctor belts out the first stanza of “Meanwhiles and Neverweres.” She feels sick to her stomach and lightheaded, like she ought to put her head between her knees, but she hops up to sit on the counter and leans back against the wall instead, tipping her head back and listening to the sound of the Doctor’s voice.

The Doctor's halfway through the song, and she's halfway through the beer, when she hears movement and someone says from the door, "Aren't you two supposed to be a double act?"


	3. Chapter 3

  
Rose has never been so relieved to see Donna in her entire life and she’s up off the wall in a flash, wrapping Donna in a hug.

“How did you – how are you here? Oh my god, Donna.” She nearly crumples as Donna slips her arms around Rose, returning the hug for a long moment before pulling back.

“Turns out someone overheard the conversation you had with your friend in there in the grocery store, and snapped a picture of the two of you. They posted it to Twitter, and suddenly the internet’s on fire, talking about the world’s greatest Doctor and Rose impersonators,” Donna says.

Rose sniffles, she’s not crying, not exactly, but it’s lingering right around the curves of her eyes, threatening. “And you knew we weren’t impersonators. Oh, Donna, it’s all messed up.”

A bloke staggers into the kitchen, looking for a beer, and Rose shoots him a look that has him tripping over his feet to get back out again.

“What’s messed up?” Donna says, voice gentle as her gaze scans over Rose like she’s checking for injuries.

“Everything, oh, god, Donna, he found out about Joanie, and now he’s here – he came on his own – and he’s with that woman.” Rose is getting progressively more frantic, heart slapping out a rhythm that makes her dizzy. “I don’t know how to fix this, I don’t even know where to start.”

Donna stands up straight, shoulders squaring. “I knew something like this would happen. You know I almost made you a list? A ‘what to do with the Doctor, pre-Suit Album’ list? Because that model should definitely come with instructions.”

Rose manages a small smile, instructions would have helped, but Rose has a feeling that ‘what to do if the Doctor starts chatting up another woman’ wouldn’t have been on them.

“What do I do?” Rose’s head is swimming, visions of all of this leaking, of Joanie someday finding out, clouding her thoughts.

“I’ve got a place rented, not too far from yours,” Donna says. “I’ll take him there for the night. You should get some sleep, Rose. Your mum’s flight gets in at noon and you need to be ready for Joanie. Unless – do you want me to have her keep Joanie longer?”

Rose’s knees buckle a bit, and she sags back against the wall.

“Yes. No. No, I need to see her, she needs her mum,” Rose says and Donna gives her an understanding smile.

“My cab is still outside,” Donna tells her. “Take that and I’ll get him home. I’ll call you in the morning.”

Rose nods and moves for the kitchen door, the one that leads to the backyard instead of the house because she’s afraid of what she’ll find if she goes through the living room. She turns back to Donna at the last second, fingers twisting the engagement ring on her finger, thinking of vows they haven’t said yet and how she feels them just the same.

“You don’t have to wait until morning,” Rose says. “If something comes up, if he needs me, call.”

Donna nods and Rose ducks out the door and into the night.

~~~~~

All things considered, the Doctor’s enjoying himself, a guitar in his hands, the eyes of the crowd on him, and a pretty blonde by his side – even if he gets the feeling it’s the wrong blonde entirely.

He’s between songs, tuning the guitar, fingers plucking the strings, when a sound he would recognize anywhere rings through the room.

“Oi!”

He looks up and there she is, Donna Noble, and she does not look pleased.

It’s a split second decision to ignore her, one he knows she won’t stand for. Even if he can’t remember Rose, can’t remember much of anything, he can definitely recall Donna when she’s got a bone to pick.

Craig, clearly unaware of what he’s getting into, jumps in.

“Hey, you look just like his manager! Oh, this is great, you lot are thorough, aren’t you?”

Donna sizes Craig up and tidily sidesteps him, barreling for the Doctor.

She grabs his arm, the one Joan has her hand on, and tugs. “We have to go,” she tells him.

“Nope, haven’t even started the encore yet,” the Doctor says and Donna’s eyes blaze in response.

She leans down, right next to his ear. “You have no idea what you’re doing and. You. Are. Going. To. Regret. It.”

He slides neatly out of the chair, out of reach of both Donna and Joan.

“Just need to refill my drink,” he says, voice raised to the crowd as he strides across the room to the kitchen.

Donna predictably follows, door swinging shut behind her as he rifles through the sink for another beer.

“Doctor,” she says. “I know you can’t remember, but Rose is one of the loves of your life, and Joanie’s the other. When you get your memory back – and you will get it back – they’ll still be there. Do you want to sacrifice them, and the man you are with them, for a lark at a party?”

The Doctor is genuinely confused – Joanie? So Joan is from his future, too? And if she is, and he loves her, why all the fuss?

“Joanie? How do I know Joan?”

Donna’s eyes fill with sadness, the same expression he’s seen on Rose’s face for the last day.

“Joanie’s your daughter’s name, Doctor.”

Every scrap of the Doctor’s manic energy fizzles and gutters out, and he closes his eyes, shoulders slumping as he leans onto the counter. He can’t draw a deep enough breath — his chest isn’t big enough, his lungs aren’t working properly, grey and black spots swim behind his eyelids. The room spins and tilts sideways.

Donna’s hand settles on his shoulder, solid and comforting and familiar. Pulls him back to center, keeps him steady.

“I know what you’ve been doing, Doctor: sticking your nose right into the nearest adventure. You just got turned around, stuck your nose the wrong direction, that’s all.”

“Why didn’t she — why keep it secret? Any of it? How am I supposed to —”

“She’s scared. So are you. Quite a pair, the both of you. Always have been. Y’know, the first time you saw her onstage, Wembley Stadium, she was opening for the Suit Tour. All dolled up in a pink sequined dress with that matching pink guitar of hers, and you couldn’t keep your eyes off of her. I watched you, watching her, and knew you were already gone. She owned you, just as sure as she owned that stage. You both cast some sort of spell on each other, and neither of you have looked back since.”

The Doctor keeps his eyes closed, pushing at the edges of his memory, probing for any hint of pink sequins and blond hair and magic spells.

There’s nothing. “I don’t know this person I’m supposed to be, Donna.”

“He is a good man. Because Rose, she — she’s made you better. The best possible version of yourself, the person you were born to be. Give it time, you’ll find him again. She can help you find him again.” Donna draws a slow, deep breath from behind him. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. I’ve got a quiet place for you to rest.”

He puts his arm around Donna’s shoulders, and they slip out the back door.

Donna’s staying in an inn down the road from Rose’s cottage. He follows Donna into her room and crashes on one of the two double beds with hardly another word, besides a small mumbled thanks. The last thing he remembers is Donna covering him with a quilt.

He wakes up before dawn, the sky dark grey outside the window. Donna’s snoring in the bed on the other side of the room, red hair wild and tangled across the pillow, a sleeping mask over her eyes.

The Doctor quietly gets out of bed and locks the bathroom door, taking a long hot shower and staring at himself in the fogged mirror, watching white tendrils snake across the reflective surface, blurring his face.

He can’t shave or style his hair properly, he hasn’t got any of his toiletries, so he puts his suit on again and decides to get some fresh air. Donna still fast asleep, he leaves the inn.

At this early hour, the village streets are empty, and all the businesses are closed, save for one small café. Hands shoved in his trouser pockets, shoulders hunched and shivering — he can’t remember if he left his overcoat at the party last night, or if it’s still at the cottage — still forgetting things, he’s still forgetting — he makes a beeline for the door.

When he gets close enough to see through the café’s front window, he stops. Rose is sitting just inside, sunk down in a one of a few large leather armchairs beside a fireplace, nursing a steaming cup of tea. Her eyes are closed, her head tipped to the side, as though she’s listening to something.

In this unobserved moment, he lets himself stare at her. The Doctor has a clear memory of the YouTube videos Adam watched (obsessively, really, Adam had quite the crush) of Rose Tyler the pop ingénue, bright-eyed and round-cheeked.

Now, years later, with her dark roots and blond hair, slender neck and full lips, there’s something pleasing about the way her age sits on her face. She’s grown into herself, somehow. He grasps for a way to describe it or pin it down, but it’s beyond him. All he knows is that she’s lovely; the years he’s spent with her that he cannot recall, she has borne them well.

She’s borne him well. Which, the Doctor knows, is no small task.

A gust of cold wind shoves at his back, ruffling his wet hair, nudging him toward the door.

He steps inside, not letting himself look at Rose, even though her presence fills every last particle of air in the café Walks to the counter and orders a mug of tea and two scones — banana and chocolate chip. It feels like a shot in the dark, a guess, but when he turns around and comes to sit in the armchair beside Rose and the fireplace, when he leans over and hands her the chocolate chip scone, her entire being quivers in scarcely suppressed delight.

She’s trying not to be hopeful, he can tell, but her eyes give her away.

He knows what it’s like to have things kept from him, and though what Donna said makes sense, that Rose was trying to protect him, lying about a scone doesn’t seem quite as worthy.

“It was just a guess,” he says and she nods sadly.

“It was a good guess,” she says. “Earned you a seat, at least.” She gestures at the armchair tilted to face hers. “If you want it.”

He moves to drop down into it, but stops himself. “What do I do if I want the armchair, but I can’t remember how to sit?”

Rose’s face clouds over in confusion, but it clears quickly.

“I don’t know, Doctor,” she says. “All I can tell you is that it used to be your favorite chair. And the little ottoman that goes with it, too.”

He stares at the chair and then at Rose, words forming slowly: “It does look comfortable. Exactly the sort of chair I’d pick, if I were picking out chairs.”

With a quiet deliberateness, he takes a seat, settling himself into the cushions, and he feels a slow release of pressure leaking out from his chest, warmth slipping through his body. He gives her a small, hopeful smile.

“I’m gonna remind you of this, you know,” Rose says, returning the smile. “That time you compared me to a piece of furniture.”

“You mean those sort of romantic declarations don’t happen often?” he teases. “What sort of man have I become?”

Rose catches his eye, her gaze sparkling and clear. “A good one.”

It’s a little uncomfortable, these continued assertions that he’s some sort of saint, and he shies away from it. “Anyway, you’re the one that compared Joanie to an ottoman.”

Rose’s breath catches as he says it, he can actually see the movement in her chest.

The Doctor shrugs, still feeling like he hasn’t got his feet. “Donna told me her name.”

“It’s for Joan Jett,” Rose says quietly. “Went ‘round and ‘round on that, we did. At one point I think you even tried to name her ‘Tom Petty.’”

It’s not an unfitting reference, the way he feels like he’s in a constant state of free falling lately, and he laughs softly.

“Glad you talked me out of that one.”

Rose clears her throat, shoulders straightening. “She’ll be here today, actually, Joanie will. My mum’s due with her in a few hours.”

His face must give him away, all the blood draining from it.

“You don’t have to see her,” Rose says, and he suddenly feels even worse. That’s not what he wants either. He wants to see her and remember her.

“I’d like to, if that’s okay.” His voice is nearly a whisper, but he delivers the words with as much conviction as he can muster.

“Of course it’s okay.”

They finish their drinks and scones in a silence more comfortable than any they’ve shared yet, and when they’re finished, the village is just opening up for the day.

They walk out to the street and he catches sight of a little barber shop just switching their ‘Open’ sign on. “I’ll be right back,” he says, and darts across the street.

Five minutes later he’s still in front of the bank of mirrors when Rose walks in, a small tube of newly purchased wax next to him as he styles his hair.

“Wouldn’t do to meet my daughter with a head like a poodle,” he tells Rose and the smile she gives him makes his stomach flip.

The rest of the morning passes quickly, exploring the small town once more with Rose by his side. She takes his hand again as they walk by the pub from yesterday and he wraps his fingers around hers before he can even tell his mind to do it. His muscles remember, at least.

Rose’s phone chimes with a text message from Donna at just past 11, Rose’s mum’s flight had caught a tailwind and they’ve already landed, so Donna arranges to pick them up in front of the grocery store.

When they get in the car, he watches as Rose gives Donna a small, affirming nod, and Donna smiles at him response.

“You’re getting there, mate,” she tells him.

The small airport is mostly quiet, not too many people around, and they make it to the baggage claim area quickly. The flight’s luggage has somehow beat the passengers out, and the Doctor watches as Rose pulls a folded up buggy and car seat from the carousel.

These are his daughter’s things, he has a daughter, and she’s small enough to fit in that little buggy.

Before he can even finish processing that thought, there’s the high, happy squeal of a toddler and suddenly a tiny little person is running towards him.

It’s slow motion then, the girl reaching him, Rose moving swiftly to his side. Reflexively he drops down to the child’s level, and she barrels into his chest, chubby little arms wrapping around his neck.

“Da! Da!” she shouts and he returns the embrace, heart thumping in his ears. She smells amazing, all baby soft and washing powder and he rubs a hand up her back, his fingers curling gently into her through her jumper.

She pulls away quickly, squirming across him to where Rose has her arms extended, squatting down next to him.

“Mama!” the girl shouts as Rose cuddles her, smattering kisses all over her head, the soft, messy brown hair, her round, full cheeks.

“Hi, love!” Rose says and shifts back up to her feet while he does the same.

“Doctor,” she says. “This is Joanie. Joanie, say hello.” Her voice rises in pitch, sing-song-y now, “Say hel-lo!”

Joanie grins, arm flapping in what he’s sure is supposed to be a wave, “Hello!” She parrots back.

Rose bounces Joanie on her hip a few times as he struggles to figure out an appropriate greeting.

It’s on his third attempt to speak that he realizes they’re not alone, and have been joined by another blonde woman, slightly older than Donna.

This must be Grandma.

~~~~~

Jackie cocks her head up at the Doctor appraisingly, hands on her hips. She hasn’t seen the Doctor since everything started, and for a wild instant, Rose can’t tell if she’s going to hug or slap him.

Lips pursed, she gestures toward herself and says, “So … nothing, hmm?”

“Mum,” Rose says, warning tone to her voice. Joanie’s pulling at her hair, little palm patting her cheek as she wiggles and leans toward the Doctor again.

“The infamous Jackie Tyler,” the Doctor says, sticking out a hand. “Rose’s mum and manager. ‘Course I know who you are!”

Jackie stares for a moment before shaking it. “I haven’t been Rose’s manager in years. I spend most of my time these days chairing the Doctor fanclub, running your website, and moderating the online forums.”

The Doctor’s eyes brighten just a little, one corner of his mouth lifting. Rose can practically see the gears turning in his head, creating an idyllic picture of Jackie as a doting mother-in-law figure, all the happy hours they must spend talking about both of their favorite subject: the Doctor. “Really?”

“No, you plum,” she snorts, affectionate even in her derision. “I run two charities, and babysit my granddaughter once a week so you two can go out on a date.”

There’s a tug on Rose’s elbow, and she twists her head sideways toward Donna. Donna nods at the bank of doors along one side of the baggage claim, at the four blokes with cameras standing just beyond the airport security guards.

Rose instinctively turns Joanie so she’s facing the opposite direction, keeping her face hidden.

“Bang-up celebrity impersonation job. The Doctor’s got ‘em fooled into thinking you’re both the real thing,” Donna murmurs. “Dunno if you noticed, but someone was filming his little performance last night and uploaded it. A couple thousand retweets later, and we might be looking at a full-scale invasion.”

Cold annoyance prickles the back of Rose’s neck, and there’s a word on the tip of her tongue, but Joanie’s little ears are close so she digs her teeth into her lip instead. “Bring the car around back?”

“Already on it. Just going to have a word with security first,” Donna says, keys jingling in her hand as she marches off toward the airport office.

Rose steps between the Doctor and Jackie. “We’ve got company,” she says, eyes darting toward the photographers outside, and their long lenses pointed toward the window. “Donna’s bringing the car around back.”

“Oh, those bloodsuckers,” Jackie says, expression hardening into something terrifying and determined. “You three go with Donna. I’ll take care of them.”

And with that, she’s marching across the baggage claim toward the door. Rose lets out a halfhearted “Mum!” at her back before sighing. Joanie’s wiggling, making a continuous whining noise punctuated with “Da! Da!” as she stretches toward the Doctor again.

“Your mum seems … nice,” the Doctor says carefully.

“She’s going to eat them alive,” Rose replies, shifting Joanie to the opposite hip, willing her to sit still, even as she keeps chanting “Da! Da!” and her face scrunches up unhappily. She’s been cooped up on an airplane for hours, and more than anything she needs space and time to get out her toddler energy. Given another few minutes, this is all going to end with a screaming tantrum.

And given the tabloid turn this quiet, recuperative retreat looks like it’s about to take, Rose just might join her.

Unfortunately, that would almost surely go viral, too, and Rose smothers the impulse down to save for later. Preferably in a room with very little noise and a very big bottle of wine.

They have to get themselves, and Joanie’s stuff, out of the airport.

Joanie is still squirming, bending backwards over Rose’s arm like she’s trying to tumble free to the floor, but if Rose lets her down, trying to pick her back up again is definitely going to usher in that tantrum.

“Can you –” she looks at the Doctor, the slightly wide-eyed look he’s giving the whole scene, and he turns back to her when she speaks. “I either need you to take Joanie, or take all the luggage,” she says and gestures to the suitcases and baby gear, lying next to a cart Jackie had brought.

“Please,” she adds.

The Doctor nods, eyes darting between his options, when Joanie lets out another wail for him. “Da-a-a-a-a!”

It’s not the steadiest of movements, but he reaches for Joanie and Rose hands her over gratefully. The luggage is heavier, but not sentient and fidgeting, and she loads it easily onto the cart, trying not to stare too much at the way the Doctor is holding Joanie like a cross between an explosive and a puppy.

“Mine,” Joanie shouts, twisting to point at the small owl backpack lying on top of the luggage cart.

“Yes, Joanie, that’s yours,” Rose tells her, and holds the bag up. “Can you say ‘please?’”

“Please!” Joanie claps happily and Rose hands it over.

She can’t hold back a smile as Joanie shoves the backpack into the Doctor’s chest. “On,” Joanie says.

“She wants you to wear it,” Rose tells him, trying not to laugh as the Doctor extends the backpack with his free arm and sizes it up. It’s blue and red and very small, clearly meant to be toddler-sized, but with the amount of stuff Joanie can pack into it, Rose is sure it has supernatural qualities.

“On,” Joanie repeats, more insistent this time, and the Doctor hustles to comply, slinging a strap of the backpack up one arm so it rests on his back, the eyes of the owl staring in the direction of the paparazzi.

“Looks brilliant.” Rose grins at him, and though his cheeks go pink, he smiles back at her.

It’s a series of complicated advance and block movements to get them all out to the back exit of the baggage claim and avoid cameras, and Donna meets them there with the car.

Installing the carseat is never Rose’s favorite thing, she usually makes the Doctor handle it, fighting with the straps and belts and buckles, but it’s not like he’d remember how to do it anymore, and she forces herself not to scream with then seatbelt locks for the sixth time.

They’ve finally got the last car door shut, the Doctor up front with Donna, and Rose in the back with Joanie, when the first photographer makes it out to the rear pick up area, Jackie right behind him.

Jackie waves her hand at them – go, go, go – and Donna lurches the car into the traffic lane.

They’re off like a shot, and once they round the front of the airport to the main road, a black sedan picks up their tail, two cameramen in the front seat. Rose struggles to keep Joanie happy as the car zips along, weaving in and out of traffic, Donna doing everything she can to shake off the sedan. The Doctor’s shouting directions, trying to get her to turn the wrong way down one street, duck into a garage the next block, pull a 180 and dazzle them with her headlights. She does an admirable job of ignoring most of his suggestions, even as he gets more agitated and inventive.

“I’ve got it — we should do a Marseille!” he crows excitedly. “Turn right, turn right!” He reaches over and grabs the wheel, the car is flung sideways, and Rose barely manages to catch Joanie’s dummy as it flies across the backseat.

Donna whacks the Doctor on the arm a few times, slapping his hands away as she stabilizes the car and checks the rear view for the paparazzi. “A what? A Marseille? Rose, what’s he going on about?”

“One time in” — Rose sticks the dummy back in Joanie’s mouth — “in Marseille, we ducked out of the car at our hotel and the driver led the press on a goose chase around town for hours.” Her eyes fix on the Doctor, her heart thumping — adrenaline and hope, like a star bursting to life in the dark void of space. Grinning like he’s on a roller coaster ride, he reaches toward the gearshift, and Donna smacks his hand again.

“We’ve just got to get far enough in front of them so you can slow down and we hop out, then let them pick your trail back up again, drive them all the way back to London! Or right off into the Channel! Wherever suits your fancy!”

“All right, all right, Rock Boy, I’ve got it, cool your jets.” Donna looks at Rose in the rear view mirror. “You and Joanie up for a Marseille?”

“Absolutely,” Rose replies.

It works better than it had in Marseilles, even. The small winding roads mean sightlines are often blocked, and it’s just a matter of pulling far enough ahead of the paparazzi car so Donna can come to a stop in front of the cottage, and the Doctor chucks all of Joanie’s bags and gear over the thick hedges in the front garden while Rose bundles her out of the carseat. Donna’s revving the engine, and the instant the last door closes she’s off again in a small puff of exhaust; Rose and the Doctor and Joanie tumble behind the hedges along with the luggage as the paparazzi car zips past a few seconds later, its occupants none the wiser.

Joanie crawls right out of Rose’s arms and settles herself into the Doctor’s lap, stretching up to scratch his cheeks with her little fingernails, giggling at his stubble. “Silly Da! Prickle prickle!”

“Say brill-iant, Joanie. Brill-iant!”

“Vwill-ant Da,” Joanie tries gamely, dummy still in her mouth.

Rose is still breathing fast, heart hammering and aching. “What made you say Marseille, Doctor?”

“Dunno,” he replies, shooting her a grin as he takes Joanie’s hand and stops her from smacking his face again — she’s like a little Donna. “As far as old dogs go, I like new tricks, but sometimes old ones work just as well.”

“You do realize that Marseille was nine months ago,” she says.

At that exact moment, Joanie squeals and hops out of the Doctor’s lap, making a beeline for the road, and Rose’s mobile simultaneously begins to ring.

Before she can tell him to, the Doctor is up off the ground, running after Joanie, the hurried, hunched sprint of a parent that has him scooping her up in a moment.

Rose’s phone rings again, right in time to Joanie’s indignant wail, and this time Rose gets it out, her mum’s face staring up at her from the screen.

“Hello,” she says, slightly breathless, blood still thrumming with adrenaline.

“Hi, honey,” her mum says. “They’re on my cab, I’m going to take them to the hotel, instead of where you’re staying. I’ll have to catch up with you later.”

It’s for the best, and they say their goodbyes quickly, her mum just beginning to shout at the driver in the background as Rose disconnects.

Suddenly, it’s completely quiet, the Doctor and Joanie standing in the yard, staring at her and awaiting instructions.

It’s a feeling that chafes even in their old, regular life – that she’s always the ringleader, always in charge, and it’s even worse now, when she has no direction to give.

“We better get this stuff inside,” she finally says, because at the very least, having Joanie’s things litter the lawn is probably not a good idea.

Rose moves to take Joanie from the Doctor, but she twists away, curling further into him. It’s a thing that would normally bother Rose, but the happy and awed look on the Doctor’s face takes the sting out.

“I think she likes me,” the Doctor says.

“She loves you,” Rose tells him.

~~~~~

Two hours later and the Doctor’s in the weirdest situation he’s encountered in this small town yet – lying on the sofa while Joanie naps on his chest, small puffs of her breath ruffling and warming his shirt.

Rose had fed her, heating up some of their leftover pasta from the evening before, and then gone to set up the small play yard in the bedroom for her to sleep in.

When she comes back, the Doctor almost wants to tell her to leave Joanie, she’s a comfortable weight on his chest, and something about the position seems natural. Familiar, even.

Instead he gently rises with her, signaling to Rose that he’ll put her down, and Rose trails him to the bedroom.

When Joanie’s settled, blanket tucked around her and dummy firmly in her mouth, he turns to see Rose leaning against the door frame.

She gives him a smile, a slow thing that creeps through his blood like the burn of good scotch, and then she turns back to the living room and he follows.

Settled on the sofa again, this time with Rose situated on the opposite end, he suddenly wants to know everything there is to know about the amazing girl in the other room. And her amazing mum.

“Tell me about her,” he says, at the same time Rose speaks. “So, Marseille.”

They both laugh. “You go first,” she says.

“I want – I know I remembered Marseille, but it was like a reflex, I didn’t think about it, it was just there. I was wondering if maybe you could tell me about Joanie,” his voice is tentative. “See if it sparks something else?”

Rose nods and he feels a sense of relief. He’s not sure why he feels on uneasy ground, she’s his daughter, whether he remembers her or not, but it seems like he’s asking a lot of Rose, having to fill him in.

“She’s completely brilliant.” Rose is beaming. “I know you’re not supposed to say that, the books tell you not to, but she really is. She’s curious and happy and a really good eater, Doctor, she’s amazing. I wish — I wish you could remember her.”

He searches, mind flipping through anything, everything, but it’s not there, the only memories he has of Joanie are the ones they’ve just made. “What else?”

“She loves to know how things work, always pulling stuff apart,” Rose laughs. “You should see the number she did on your guitar.”

He feels horror overtake his face, what’s happened to his guitar?

“Don’t worry it was just a spare.” Rose grins at him, tongue between her teeth. “You took all the fiddly bits off though, after that, let her play with it. She drags it through the house sometimes.”

It’s there then, just behind his eyes, a still image of a stripped-down, dark brown acoustic, one he doesn’t even recognize, sitting next to a small toy hammer.

“Is it walnut?”

Rose’s eyes light up. “It is, yeah. Do you remember it?”

He shakes his head, trying to poke at the image, get more details, “Not really, but I can sort of – I can see it. That has to count for something.”


	4. Chapter 4

  
She leans forward, hand covering his on the back of the couch. Her smile could power a full city block. “It counts, Doctor.”

Just like Marseille, just like the walnut guitar, there’s something in his mind behind a veil he can’t quite draw back, fervid and familiar. An impulse to lean forward, to pin the woman at the opposite end of the couch and kiss her until he can’t breathe, lick his way to the hollow of her neck and chart the curves and lines of her body with his fingers.

Rose has known him for years, she likely wouldn’t protest. Going by the warm devotion in her eyes — and Joanie’s existence — Rose generally seems to encourage this kind of thing from him.

He feels like he’s only known Rose for a matter of days, mad days, everything about her is comfortable and foreign all at the same time, like some unexplored country he’s glimpsed on maps but never set foot in.

Except this unexplored country is actually home.

The idea is magnificently terrifying. Yesterday he followed his flight instinct, ran right off into the night, to someone else. Disaster. And now there’s nothing left but to indulge his fight instinct, to stay and confront and — well, if that means snogging the gorgeous woman on this couch, the Doctor’s willing to put in the work.

There’s still enough adrenaline trickling through the Doctor’s system from their frantic airport escape that he indulges himself for a long moment, studying Rose’s face as she watches him. Her fingers slip between his, finger pads stroking deliberately over the sensitive stretch of skin between. He inches forward, one long leg folded underneath the other, and lifts up his opposite hand.

“Do you — would you mind?” The words are unexpectedly strained; he clears his throat and tries again. “Everything with Joanie, remembering the guitar, I just think that maybe the more familiar something is, the more it helps.”

It isn’t a line, is it? Not if it’s sort of true?

Line or not, clumsy as it is, Rose doesn’t hesitate. She takes his hand suddenly, draws it to her face. Palm pressed against her cheek, she leans into his touch and closes her eyes. “I should’ve told you about Joanie from the beginning. I’m sorry. I was only trying —”

“It’s okay,” he interrupts. His thumb traces the line of her cheekbone, fingers curling as he draws them away from her ear. Guilt nudges from the back of his head, over a different blond at a party, and there’s an apology somewhere in the depths of his throat, but he swallows it back down for now. “We’re both working blind, Rose.”

She lets out a soft, stuttering breath as he caresses her forehead, charting the arch of her eyebrows; she leans closer, tilts her head to the side, exposing the angle of her jaw and sweeping line of her neck. Turning his hand, he slowly trails his knuckles across her skin, down to the collar of her shirt, before bringing it back to her face again.

Blood thumping loud in his ears, chest hot and toes curling in his trainers, he draws the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip. Her mouth opens a fraction, white teeth and pink tongue just visible, as he traces the full curve around the outside, to the gentle dip just above her top lip.

There’s a balance he’s trying to keep – respect her boundaries, but push at his own. The ones keeping him caged in a reality where he has no memories of kissing Rose before.

He shifts his hand back to cup her cheek, his voice low. “Still okay?”

She opens her eyes again, and they’re clear and bright when they meet his.

“Always okay,” she says.

He nods. There’s a memory he’s still got, from when he was young, of standing on a branch of the tallest tree at the Academy, higher than anyone had climbed it before. Surveying the campus, Koschei below him, the urge to jump down thrumming in his veins, and he’d just –fell. He’d landed in a flurry of limbs and grass and a splitting headache, but he hadn’t broken anything, and he went on to do it again the next week.

This feels like that, like whatever’s waiting for him at the bottom, it’s worth it for those few, long moments where he’s flying. The moments where something else entirely is in control.

He tips his head toward hers, eyes slipping shut, and that moment where he’d stepped off the branch, right before gravity had taken hold, hangs in the back of his mind.

Then he’s pressing his lips to Rose’s.

It’s only the lightest of touches, dry and soft and warm, but he hears the happy, relieved noise Rose makes against his mouth, and he moves even closer.

He takes her bottom lip between his own, kissing it before moving to the top one, small, little kisses that have her opening her mouth, letting him closer and closer. His tongue slips into her mouth, his body a half-step ahead of his mind, muscle memory and rhythms and instinct.

She meets his tongue with her own, tilting her head as their mouths open wider. His hand has slipped from her cheek to cup the curve of her neck, thumb trailing along the edges of her jaw. Her own hands wind into his hair, every single spot, every nerve ending, flaming to life under her fingers.

He wants more, wants it all, wants it now, and he speeds the pace of the kiss, pulling back only to return, the warm, slick texture of her tongue, the pressure of her teeth as she nips at his bottom lip.

His free hand can’t stay still, moving to her shirt, the top button already undone, and he skates his fingers down until he meets where the next one is fastened. Thumb and fingers and it’s the work of a second to undo it, to slip his hand underneath the fabric and press against the skin over her heart.

It beats steady and strong under his fingers, she’s here, this is real, they’re real, and he’s lost to the thought that they’ve probably done this thousands of times before. Did he notice then? Or was it routine? The way she smells and sounds, the softness of her skin, the scratch of her jeans as they brush against his trousers.

He wants to package it all up, dangle it like a carrot in front his traitorous mind. This is what you’re missing, this is what you need to find.

Rose pulls back slowly, small, lingering kisses as they part, and she presses her forehead to his.

“Anything?” The word is a warm breath against his skin.

He shakes his head, forehead rolling against hers, and he grins.

“No,” he says. “But we should try again.”

It’s then he learns – for the second time – of his daughter’s impeccable timing.

~~~~~

A high-pitched wail drifts from the bedroom, one that means Joanie’s dummy has fallen out just before she drifted off to sleep completely. It’s only been a few minutes since the Doctor put her down, there’s no way she’s done napping yet.

Barely cutting off her own wail of disappointment, settling for an eye roll instead, Rose nudges the Doctor’s nose with her own. “Be right back. Don’t move. Stay precisely here.”

She leans away and stands up, but his body remains perfectly still, arched forward on the sofa in the most ridiculous manner, like he’s about to snog thin air. There’s a dazed headiness to his expression, even as he smirks at her. “Precisely here, like this?”

“Not qui-i-ite.” Rose leans down, puts a finger under his chin and tips his head up a fraction of an inch, then shifts his arm so his hand is closer to where her right breast would be. She studies him carefully, like an artist stepping back to examine her work, tongue resting thoughtfully between her lips. “Much better. I’ll be right back.”

She hears him snickering as she turns away and walks into the dark bedroom.

Rose tries putting the dummy back in and tucking Joanie into the port-a-crib again, but she’s not having any of it. She’s rubbing her eyes, but she doesn’t want to settle down. The dummy ends up on the floor twice, and Rose spends far longer than she’d intended swaying and rocking Joanie before her little eyelids grow heavy and she’s nearly asleep again, before Rose can put her back down.

By the time she re-emerges, the Doctor’s not on the couch anymore. She can’t exactly blame him — it’s been at least fifteen minutes — but she’s disappointed not to find him sitting there, holding that pose with his bottom lip sticking out and that slightly lecherous look on his face.

Because when he’d kissed her, she’d forgotten for a few seconds. Forgotten that he didn’t remember, forgotten everything except the fact that she was here, with the Doctor, everything as it should be.

Following the sound of his humming to the kitchen, Rose leans against the doorframe and watch him peel and slice a pear (of all things — where did that even come from? Certainly they hadn’t bought it at the market). It’s one of his songs from the Suit Album, something they’ve covered together countless times on tour. One performance of this particular duet even caused a riot outside a television station in Tokyo — although the Doctor dipping her backward and snogging her during the live broadcast had probably been more to blame than the song itself.

After a moment Rose starts humming along with him in harmony, keeps going when he pauses and turns to stare at her. He joins back in, and before long they’re both singing softly, him occasionally mumbling the lyrics through a mouthful of pear.

Just as the song ends, he leaves the kitchen without a word, only to reappear with his guitar case. “I hadn’t ever imagined that song as a duet,” he says, slinging the guitar strap across his shoulders, the movement so natural it’s like breathing, “but it works!I’d like to smooth out the transition to the bridge.”

“Not in here, you aren’t,” Rose retorts, hands on her hips as she stares pointedly toward the wall to the bedroom. “Not when Joanie’s finally fallen asleep. Hold on.”

She’s in and out of the bedroom in a quiet flash, just long enough to snag her own guitar case and a few coats. Shoving a blue hoodie and brown coat into his hands, she says, “The back garden is very private, and far enough away from Joanie. We’ll work out the duet there.”

~~~~~

It’s a little bit like cheating, the way the suggestions Rose makes on the arrangement are invariably the right ones. Because she’s done this before, she knows what sounds best. He finds himself mostly pacified though, when she makes sure to point out which of the brilliant ideas were actually his to begin with.

They’ve played through all of the singles off The Suit Album when Rose looks at him, squinting like she’s thinking.

“Let’s try something,” she says. “I’m gonna play and you follow along. Pick it up when you feel like it.”

She resets her capo, still sizing him up, and then she eases into a song, a mid-tempo tune he can already tell was written to be acoustic. He tries not to focus too much on any one thing, not her fingers, not the lyrics, not the way she licks her lips between verses, he just listens.

About halfway through the song he anticipates a chord change, picking it up right alongside Rose and she grins at him.

They nearly finish the song, but he starts concentrating too hard at the end, reaching for the lyrics in the last verse, and it slips away. It’s almost like he can’t face any of it head on, like – for now – it needs to stay in the periphery.

“That was ‘Acute Angles,’ Doctor,” Rose tells him. “We wrote that on the bus, the very first time you bought me pizza.”

He smiles at her, and there’s another image, a pizza half-full of big slices, and the other half where it’s double cut.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those that doesn’t like to fold your pizza in half, Rose Tyler,” he feigns shock and she waggles her finger at him.

“We have this discussion a lot, actually,” Rose says. “And you’ve never once convinced me.”

That night, they wave Donna and Jackie off – we’re fine, we swear – ordering a pizza for one more go at settling the debate.

It doesn’t happen, Rose gets out a knife and cuts hers in half right alongside the small pieces she’s cutting up for Joanie, but it feels good, domestic, maybe, but still – good.

It becomes a pattern over the next couple of weeks – repeating routines and actions and conversations, trying to spark a memory. He asks when he gets images and she suggests things for him to think on.

It comes in bits and pieces, never anything he can predict.

One night on the sofa, he’s got her shirt off, and he knows – just knows – that this particular bra fastens in front. (Joanie seems to know it, too, offering another indignant wail from the bedroom just as he’s gotten the clasp open.)

He cooks breakfast and burns her bacon to a crisp, leaving it on the pan, not because he’s forgotten it or she’s told him to, but because his brain forces the action. This is bacon for Rose, and bacon for Rose gets burnt to a crisp.

Donna leaves, and eventually Jackie, too, and shortly after a thick envelope arrives. Photographs and lyric sheets, shopping lists and ticket stubs, it’s like Jackie’s swept the whole of their kitchen counter clean and right into the envelope.

(Rose tells him that’s exactly what she’s done.)

They pour over it together, and he tries as best as he can.

When he remembers things on his own, it’s still unmoving, still just a picture, but he asks Rose every time and she always fills in the details.

A park with a single swing and a thin layer of snow on the ground, a tiny set of footprints tracked right through.

“Those were Joanie’s first proper steps,” Rose tells him, and he feels relief.

A cast on his arm, blue and itchy-looking, a black marker drawing of something running the length of it. (He knows what it looks like, but doesn’t want to say.)

“Jack Harkness, and it’s exactly what it looks like,” Rose tells him, and he feels like laughing.

A dark hotel room in Provence, with the bedcovers rumpled on only one side – Rose’s face clouds over, but she tells him of that, too – Reinette and The Cure and a slap from her mum. And he feels regret.

There’s one image he can’t stop seeing, a million different angles, a million different places – her hand in his, and they’re constantly creating new versions.

They’ve built up three weeks’ worth of hand-holding and memories and aborted attempts at seduction on the sofa when everything changes.

The Doctor wakes up one morning, and for the first time he isn’t on the sofa, he’s in the bedroom. He’s on top of the blankets and still in his trousers and socks; Rose is bundled up under several quilts, in his oxford. She’s facing away, and he’s on his stomach, but she’s got her arm stretched back toward him and his hand is resting on her hip. The details of how they got into this particular arrangement are hazy, as is the memory of the exact number of bottles of wine they’d polished off after Joanie went to sleep the night before.

His head feels thick, and he wants to get up and drink an enormous glass of water. He simultaneously wants to scoot closer to Rose’s still form, close enough to feel the expansion and contraction of her ribcage, close his eyes and pretend like this whole waking-up thing didn’t happen.

Before he comes down on the water versus cuddling debate, there’s a rustling from the other side of the room, and the very distinct sound of a dummy thumping against the floor. Next comes the rattling of bars, like some miniature convict protesting her incarceration, and a sharp, “Mama! Mama!”

The Doctor propels himself out of bed, and he’s not sure if it’s an instinct he’s honed over the last few weeks, or something from before, but he scoops Joanie out of the crib in the corner and whisks her out of the room. Rose rolls over and mumbles something, still mostly asleep, as he closes the door.

It’s the first time the Doctor can remember ever waking up alone with Joanie in the morning, without Rose there to coordinate everything that goes into her care, a complex machine whose cogs seem to turn effortlessly when Rose is around.

Right now, the cogs aren’t moving at all. The Doctor is stuck without a shirt, with a toddler in a dirty diaper, in a cottage. It sounds like some sort of bizarre fairy tale, like bears and porridge ought to march in the front door at any minute.

So the Doctor makes it a game, hide and seek with Joanie to find the clean diapers. Then it’s chase to get the dirty diaper to the outside bin before the Doctor succumbs to the stench (hazmat suits seem like a reasonable piece of emergency equipment to be standard in all rental cottages just like smoke detectors and fire extinguishers, surely there’s a law about that, he ought to call the landlord and the village council after Rose wakes up).

Next comes the tickle-monster game to herd Joanie into the kitchen, squealing as he straps her into her booster chair at the table, beside the picture-window overlooking the back garden.

He’s sitting down with a cup of coffee, scratching his bare chest as he yawns, and discussing with Joanie whether smashing banana into one’s own face is as enjoyable as she would have him believe, when it strikes him that even if he doesn’t remember all the steps that brought him to this point in his life, he is very, very glad to be here. He likes this, as wildly different as it is from the last clear memories he has, months and years on end living as a bachelor in his blue tour bus. There’s a sense of completion to the picture he’s stepped into, on this end of the looking glass – the loneliness that hunted him for so many years isn’t just at bay, it’s gone completely.

He puts the coffee cup to his lips and takes a long swallow, then says to Joanie, “Y’know, I think all of this is going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.”

In answer, she shovels a handful of banana off the side of the table and onto his foot, then dissolves into hysterical giggles.

The Doctor leans down to scoop up some of the mush, and when he lifts his head again he sees movement in the garden.

It’s a man. A man with a camera pointed directly through the window.

The Doctor stares at him, and the photographer stares back, both of them motionless as if they’re suspended in amber. There’s no other sound, not Joanie’s laugh or the tick of the grandfather clock in the corridor; after an infinite silence, a hot rush of sound roars through the Doctor’s ears, fills his head, turns the edges of his vision white with fury.

With malicious deliberateness, the man pushes the shutter button.

It’s too late. The Doctor is already in motion.

There’s no time to think about what the man he’s supposed to be would do, there’s only the man he is, and that man rises from the table so swiftly that his chair clatters to the ground, loud and harsh in the quiet of the morning.

The sound frightens Joanie and she begins to wail, getting right into it, without the little bit of wind up he’s gotten used to, and it stops him in his tracks as Rose rushes into the kitchen.

“What is it? What happened?” Her voice sounds panicked, hair askew, and she zeroes in on Joanie, crossing the room quickly and lifting her from her booster chair.

“Shh, it’s okay, love,” she rocks Joanie on her hip, rubbing her back and checking for injury.

The Doctor feels frozen, still gripped by anger, when the man outside raises the camera again, and the tension snaps.

He’s out the back door of the kitchen before he can even explain the situation to Rose, and the photographer spots him coming, backing up as quickly as he can.

The man’s foot catches on something in the grass and he tumbles to the ground, cradling his camera as he falls. The Doctor moves to stand over him and a million different options race through his mind.

There are a few that would feel amazing right now, his fists curling at his sides in anticipation, but they would be so short lived, and certainly wouldn’t help the problem. If he starts throwing punches at photographers, it’s only going to bring more.

He could break his camera, it wouldn’t be the first time, but, no, that was always a favorite of the Master’s – a camera worth several thousand pounds thrown into the ground with a satisfying smash – and, again, that always served to bring more media coverage, rather than less.

The photographer moves to stand and the Doctor shifts closer to stop him, feeling the cold air for the first time, the bottoms of his feet and the skin of his chest beginning to sting.

“What are you gonna do, mate?” the man on the ground says, his voice condescending. “Can’t hit me, and I already got my shots.”

Keeping eye contact with the man, the Doctor drops down, squatting beside him.

“You did, didn’t you?” He moves his hands to the camera, turning it as best he can with the strap still looped around the photographer’s neck. His fingers find the small input for the memory card, opening the compartment and ejecting it.

The photographer isn’t a big guy – the Doctor recognizes him for the airport a few weeks ago – and he seems almost pinned by the Doctor’s gaze, terrified for all his bravado that he isgoing to get hit.

Instead the Doctor slips the memory card out, curling his fist around it.

“You got the shots,” the Doctor says. “And now I have them.”

With that, he rises to his feet and strides to the door to the house, turning back one last time as he reaches it, “If you so much as even breathe around my daughter or this property again, I’ll be taking a lot more.”

He opens the door and shuts it firmly behind him, the sound of the photographer running away muffled beyond it.

Rose is still standing in the kitchen, holding a much calmer Joanie, when his eyes flicker back to her.

Trying to calm all the adrenaline fizzing in his veins, he takes a deep breath and fixes on the picture they make. Joanie’s pajamas are blue, covered in tiny little stars, and he picks out three different possible constellations before refocusing on Rose.

The bottom of his shirt doesn’t cover much on her, stopping at the middle of her thighs and leaving the smooth, pale skin of her legs on display. There’s a possessiveness to his thoughts that he doesn’t entirely mind, his daughter and her mum, and he’d do anything to protect them.

He holds out the memory card to Rose and she nods.

“I don’t think that’s the only one,” he tells her.

“We need to call Donna,” she says.

Donna confirms what they’ve already guessed – there are four of them here. A newspaper, two magazines, and a television station, all of them with rotating coverage from the last three weeks.

They log on to Rose’s laptop and it’s all there. The three of them in a small park in the village, Rose nicking a chip from the Doctor’s plate while Joanie giggles in a cafe, Joanie napping soundly in her buggy while the Doctor snags a kiss from Rose on a street corner.

There’s television footage of aborted interviews with both Craig and Joan, and he feels pleased that both of them refuse to comment; it appears they’ve made allies.

~~~~~

There’s also rampant speculation as to why the Doctor and Rose have gone into seclusion — entertainment media talking heads speculating on domestic troubles between them, secret addictions and recovery, something dire to do with Joanie’s health, creative retreat due of lackluster sales on their last album.

“What? Wha-a-at? What?” the Doctor sputters with increasing levels of disbelief and indignation, gesticulating at the computer so animatedly that Joanie thinks he’s trying to play patty-cake. He gets roped into a round of it, anyway.

“Sales were fine,” Rose reassures him. “They’re just grasping at straws.”

There’s a little frozen video in the corner of the screen, a large play arrow situated over the Master’s face, with the caption below, The Master comments on the Doctor shirking his responsibilities to the music industry, calls it “typical cowardice”. Rose reaches over and closes out the browser before patty-cake is over.

There’s a darkness that’s settled on the Doctor’s face, a diluted version of the thunderous fury he’d shown toward that paparazzi in the garden, and it isn’t dissipating. Rose knows that look; she’s only seen it a few times before, but if it follows through into his actions, that darkness doesn’t dissipate from the Doctor’s spirit for a long while afterward.

“You should take Joanie, go back to London,” the Doctor says. “I’ll stay here and deal with this.”

“‘Deal with this?’” Rose echoes, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. “What exactly is that supposed to mean? You gonna drop all those guys and their cameras into a black hole?”

The Doctor frowns. “I want you both safe. Out of the way. I need to room, to deal with this.”

“Ohh, I see. You need room. Is that room for your conscience to flex a little bit, maybe? Room to blunder right off into doing something stupid and impulsive and calling more attention to yourself?” She shakes her head. “That’s the worst idea you’ve had since you tried improving the efficiency on the hot water heater at the flat last month, and it ended up ruining all the floors and walls.”

His hands ball up on the table, and he hops up and begins pacing back and forth with short steps, Joanie dancing and laughing beside him. Shoving his fingers into his hair, he gives it a good yank and makes a noise of frustration.

“I can’t — Rose, I — seeing that man in the yard, knowing more of them have been following us for the last three weeks, documenting everything, stealing moments of our life as though they have some right —” The Doctor whirls around again, thumps his chest with a fist, his face screwed up into an expression of frustration and exasperation. “There’s something here, right here, pushing and shoving and I might not remember the expression on your face the first time we sang together, or the first time I saw the sun light your hair just like it is right now, or what Joanie’s first cry sounded like echoing around our hospital room, but I know — with every fiber of my being, I know — that I am not the sort of man who would stand by and let something like this happen. Let them creep into our garden, into our lives, invade and steal!”

He’s getting himself worked up — properly, frighteningly worked up — and Rose rises to her feet with her arms out, thinking she ought to stop his pacing, pull him into a hug, stroke his hair and calm him down before he gets too overwrought. Before something terrible happens, before the stress blocks up something else inside his head.

In fact, as soon as the thought crosses her mind, it takes a firm and violent hold. This is exactly what got them into this, not the Doctor himself, not exactly, but the stress of their lives.

And the way it’s only been compounded since Joanie arrived.

He’s going to wind up himself backwards another five years and what’s next? He doesn’t remember Donna? Can’t remember how to play guitar?

“Sit down, Doctor,” she says, and her tone is as firm as she can make it.

He stops walking, turning to face her with wide eyes. Aside from a few bumps in the road – including a literal one where he’d tried to cross it without looking – she’s been mostly gentle with this amensiac version of the Doctor, but if she takes the same tact here, he’s going to do something they’re not going to be able to fix.

He follows her instruction, a pout she’s more used to seeing on Joanie lately crossing his features.

“Listen,” she says, voice softening. “The people you’re trying to protect, they’re us, they’re your family. And family means you don’t have to do this alone.”

He gives her a slow smirk, eyebrows raising like he’s too clever for this conversation, “You’re treading dangerously close to a ‘Lilo and Stitch’ quote there, Rose.”

She takes his hand to stop from curling hers into fists, frustrated that he’s being so obstinate.

“I’ll quote the whole damn movie, Doctor,” she says. “You and Joanie watch it enough that I probably could. But you need to listen. We are not going anywhere, either of us, and instead of running from us – again, I might add,” he winces appropriately, and she would regret the cheap shot, except that it appears to be working, ” – you need to start thinking of how we can deal with this together.”

He nods, squeezing Rose’s hand as his eyes flicker back to the computer screen. There’s a ticker crawling along the side of the screen displaying the most viewed photos of the last 90 days. Right at the top is a photo of the three of them – the one she’s since told him about, from their first event with Joanie.

“People responded to this, then?” He says, and points at the thumbnail. “Photos of our family on our terms?”

She grins, already following the thought down the line.

“Yeah, they did,” she confirms. “They loved it.”

“So if we, say, made a plea for our privacy – appealed to people’s humanity – that could work?”

It’s not an entirely comfortable idea, that they have to give even this little bit, to get back something that is theirs in the first place, but it’s better than the Doctor chaining a bunch of reporters to their desks.

Joanie moves to the Doctor’s leg, tugging on his trousers until he picks her up and swings her into his lap. She moves her little hands to his cheeks and tips her head forward, planting a messy kiss on the tip of his nose and making herself giggle.

The Doctor laughs, too, turning Joanie so Rose can see her more fully before he speaks.

“Besides, who could say no to this face?”


	5. Chapter 5

  
~~~~~

Mapping out the scheme in his head is easier than breathing; the Doctor has been manipulating the media for ages, since the first time he and Koschei deliberately got arrested at a performance for singing profanity on live television.

He doesn’t tell Rose the entirety of the plan — she’s in on most of it, on the important bits that involve Joanie and their public appearance and the way they’re going to stage everything.

The other part of the plan, the part that involves him finding a few minutes in the far end of the garden to spend on his mobile, he’s filled with a quiet certainty that Rose doesn’t need to know. The wheels he’s set in motion, reaching out to entertainment media contacts, calling in a few favors, making sure the man who stepped foot in the garden will never be able to sell another photograph to anyone again, ruining his prospects at a career in photography, setting fire to every single bridge that man has ever built in the business.

Afterward, the Doctor jabs the disconnect button on his mobile with a grim sense of conviction, a weight of inevitability that is surprisingly bearable.

Rose and the Doctor are packed before nightfall and, at one in the morning, they bundle a sleeping Joanie into a cab and head to the airport, and the private plane Donna has arranged for them. The paparazzi have come to expect a certain schedule from Rose and the Doctor in this little town, apparently — they generally don’t go out often in the evenings, because of Joanie’s early bedtimes and the lack of readily available babysitters, so no one is waiting to take pictures of them; no one even suspects they’ve left at all.

They sleep on the flight, Joanie sprawled across Rose’s chest. The Doctor spends some of the time resting, most of the time watching them, because every time blinks he sees more of those still pictures behind his lids, snapshots of a life he’s desperate to remember. The profound instinct to protect this existence, here with Rose and Joanie, is so strong that he can only imagine the depth and breadth of happiness locked away in those memories.

There’s Rose’s smile, and the sound of laughter in the kitchen of a flat he doesn’t recognize, as he throws pasta against the wall to see if it’s done, and she tells him it only works with spaghetti, not cannelloni. There are long nights sleeping on a couch, but not alone — Joanie’s with him, so tiny she practically fits in the palm of his two hands, little bow-lips and pudgy cheeks that turn red when she wakes him up, wailing, and he has to fetch Rose to feed her. The way the wood floor in front of the refrigerator squeaks — in the flat he doesn’t recognize, the one where Rose lives with him — and he has to stand to the side when he’s sneaking extra pieces of cake before supper, so as not to give himself away.

Sound. He’s remembering sound. All the little fragments that add substance, depth and emotion to his visual memory.

In the early hours, just after dawn, they land in London. Rose is handling Joanie, and the Doctor is handling the gear, and he’s so preoccupied with pushing at these memories, trying to force them out, chasing down scent and touch and taste, that he leaves the diaper bag onboard the jet, and the steward has to chase them down the corridor to hand it over.

Donna has assured them that construction at the flat is finished, and when they step foot inside the front door, Rose makes a noise of pure happiness.

“They even put the furniture back!” she says, letting Joanie down so she can go toddler-stomping across the brand new wood floor as Rose tosses her purse and the diaper bag onto the floor in the entry.

“Smells funny,” the Doctor replies, nose wrinkled as he surveys the flat. Just inside a nearby door he sees the kitchen from the memory of cooking lasagna; straight ahead is the couch where he slept with Joanie on his chest.

“That’s just the new drywall and plaster, all the construction dust hasn’t settled yet,” Rose says, squeezing his arm reassuringly before she heads right after Joanie.

Rooted to the spot, the Doctor closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath through his nose. The scent of tea and overripe bananas should be coming from the right, through the kitchen door. The Doctor always buys more bananas than they can eat, because he knows that as soon as they’re covered in brown spots Rose will make banana bread. And the cabinet full of Rose’s favorite tea, always looseleaf, Darjeeling for morning and chamomile for evening; little specks of dried leaves were always dropping from the cabinet, as though there was a perpetually wilting miniature tree inside, the Doctor had stopped trying to keep the tea contained and simply swept the escaped flakes into the sink without thinking about it anymore.

And fainter than that, the scent of chemical deodorizers is missing, the disinfectant they use to keep the pail where they throw Joanie’s dirty nappies from smelling too foul (it only partially works, the Lemon Fresh Scent is always tinged with a hint of stale wee no matter what, even if the Doctor takes out the bin liner every day).

Sight, sound, smell. All of it trickling through the veil in his head at an ever-increasing speed, like cracks in a dam giving way to the inexorable pressure of water behind them, concrete flaking away and metal supports groaning under the strain of holding back the deluge.

“Doctor?” He opens his eyes. Rose is standing in front of him, looking up with a concerned expression. “You okay?”

Arms moving automatically, he wraps her up against his body, buries her face into her hair and breathes deep. “Good. Excellent. Brilliant, matter of fact!”

She holds him in response, arms tight around his middle, fingers curling into his waist, and laughs, her body shaking against him. “I thought you’d fallen asleep on your feet. You didn’t seem to sleep much on the plane.”

“I’m wide awake,” he says.

“I’d like to do this sooner rather than later.”

“Let’s get ready, then.”

They both clean up from their travels, Rose freshens her makeup and the Doctor uses enough product to make sure his hair isn’t flat (it’s the altitude, ironically, that seems to deflate it faster than anything else). Rose insists on dressing Joanie in the miniature-sized Ramones shirt that the Doctor picked up for her in Singapore. They hook up the webcam, settle themselves on the couch with their daughter, and begin to record their first weekly vlog.

Five minutes — that’s all — just them being themselves, teasing each other, the Doctor spontaneously singing an introduction for Joanie, charming their viewers in a way that isn’t too dissimilar from charming them at Wembley Stadium, only slightly less shout-y. A glimpse into their life, a promise to share behind-the-scenes moments from the upcoming tour, a plea for a reasonable amount of privacy in-between.

Joanie has little patience for the process, and wiggles right off of Rose’s lap two minutes into the recording; the entire thing ends with a loud crashing noise off-camera (the sculpture in the corner is a complete fatality, no amount of super-glue could resurrect it) and the Doctor lurches out of shot before Joanie can get close to the broken shards, while Rose waves goodbye and tells everyone to come back next week for another update.

He uploads the video while Rose puts Joanie down for her afternoon nap. Twenty minutes later, they’re on the front page of the BBC entertainment site, and the view count is already in the thousands.

“I get the idea, wanting to record from our own living room, but we could’ve posted the video from the cottage,” Rose says, when she finally reappears from the dark nursery. The Doctor’s sitting on the sofa with his legs stretched out onto the coffee table, socked feet on the glass, eyes closed. Lack of sleep is beginning to catch up with him; Joanie has the right idea, with this whole afternoon nap plan.

Rose plops down beside him, hip to hip, turning her body so she settles right against his chest. He lifts his arm so she can tuck her head underneath, then wraps his other arm around her shoulders. “You promised you’d tell me when we got here, so spill. Why did you insist on coming home?”

He closes his eyes and there’s another deluge of sensory memory, Rose sitting on this couch, in this exact spot, while he knelt in front of her. Nerves were ravaging his stomach because he was afraid she would reject him or send him away, because he was still caught in the throes of lonely terror at what had happened when his plane had crashed, still trying to atone for everything that happened in France.

Rose had been out that day, trying on bridesmaid dresses with Martha, and she’d smelled like new clothes; her feet were red from her tight shoes and the air conditioning hummed louder than usual because neither of them had changed the filter in months.

She had kissed him, and it tasted like forgiveness.

She had stayed, and it felt like he was whole.

There are words coming out of his mouth, words that don’t have anything to do with the thoughts in his head: “It’s more personable, us greeting everybody from our own home, with the spit-up stains from Joanie’s infant days right there on the couch behind us. The lighting’s much better here than it was at the cottage, too – we both look years younger on that video than we would’ve otherwise.”

Rose hums thoughtfully. “‘Personable’ isn’t the word I’d use for those spit-up stains. ‘Disgusting’ or ‘foul,’ more like. But you’re saying you dragged us all the way home just for some couch stains and lamps, is that it?”

She sounds amused and slightly disbelieving, like she’s fully aware that his babble reflex has engaged and he’s spouting nonsense.

He’s not that obvious, is he?

“Truthfully, I think … I think I missed it,” he says.

Her head lifts off his shoulder and her gaze is guarded, not full of the kind of hope she’d displayed when he first lost his memories, that wild fierce belief that he would snap back to his regular self in a matter of hours or days. This is the cautious anticipation of a woman who has learned to exercise restraint and patience, who has borne him and all his foibles and shortcomings, who is remarkable in every way.

Twice, he’s fallen in love with her — years ago on a blue bus, and during this last month, again, as a different man who had lost so much of himself. Even as those bits of his memory continue to trickle through, he knows with absolute certainty that given an infinite number of variations of the Doctor meeting Rose Tyler, in every circumstance, he would fall in love with her every time.

“You mean you missed the flat?”

His arm tightens around her shoulder. “I missed everything.” He yawns so deeply his jaw pops. Rose rests her head against him again, eyes still wide open, and his leg twitches once before he starts snoring.

~~~~~

The Doctor sleeps right through the end of Joanie’s nap, and Rose rushes to retrieve her without waking him.

It’s touch and go when Joanie spots him though, her mouth already opening in a greeting as they pass through the living room. Rose manages to press her finger to her lips in the nick of time, signaling the start of a quiet game that seems to work best when the Doctor does it.

Joanie quiets anyway, shoving Rose’s finger aside to lay her own against Rose’s lips, smiling happily.

She shifts her bottom against Rose’s hand, and Rose realizes she somehow missed the signs of a full nappy. She shuffles back to the bedroom and changes it quickly – the Doctor’s gotten faster at it over these last few weeks, and he was pretty good before all of this started, but Rose has always been just a little bit faster.

It’s comforting, the way they both have their strengths, and Rose is thankful she doesn’t have to do this without him. Truthfully, she doesn’t even know how she could.

Her mum is proof it can be done, but it’s those thoughts – losing him, losing either of them – that wake her in the middle of the night, calling out in her dreams and tugging the Doctor’s sleep-heavy arm around her until she calms.

She shoves them away now, too; there are things to do, unpacking to be done, groceries to get, but as Joanie beams happily up at her from the changing table, Rose decides they can wait.

Moving back to the living room and restarting the quiet game, she grabs Joanie’s coat and shoes before ducking into the kitchen. It’s a squirm-filled battle to get the shoes on – tiny Chuck Taylors that the Doctor replaces every time Joanie outgrows a pair. They’re getting close on the ones she’s got now and she can’t help the flicker of hope that he’ll remember in time to do it on his own.

Slipping her feet into her own shoes, she slides the backdoor open, carrying Joanie into the backyard before setting her down and closing the door.

Joanie makes a beeline for the swing set, little hand slapping delightedly at the baby swing, “Up, up, up,” she shouts at Rose before Rose sweeps her into her arms. She deposits Joanie in the swing, securing the buckles and bar before moving behind to give Joanie a push.

It’s one of her favorite sounds in the universe, Joanie’s laughter, it’s right up there with the rumble of the Doctor’s voice in the dark of their bedroom, the opening notes to a few of their best songs.

They haven’t been swinging for long when the backdoor slides open again, the Doctor, rumpled by sleep, exiting onto the patio.

He’s changed out of his suit, into jeans and a t-shirt, that rough brown coat that predates even Rose herself wrapped around him. It’s not the duster he’d been wearing in the village, the one she always associates with his suits, and it’s disarming to see the Doctor looking so much like himself, instead of the man he once was.

He’s got a jumper clutched in his hand, and he walks across the backyard to give it to Rose, “Thought you might be cold,” he says and hands it over.

It’s actually his jumper, though she’s taken to wearing it far more often now, and he looks shy when she notices.

“I remembered,” his voice quiet, “I remembered you like this one.”

She nods and slips it on, not missing the way the Doctor’s eyes linger over where it clings to her chest. She’s always suspected that was part of the reason he gave it up so easily.

Joanie shrieks, indignant at being left unpropelled for so long, and the Doctor moves behind her, “I’ll have a go,” he says.

Rose shifts aside, climbing into the small clubhouse next to the swings, and watching from above as her family takes in the sunny day.

A few minutes pass, and the Doctor looks up at her. “Glad you two seem to enjoy this,” he says, and makes a show of cracking and rotating his wrist.

“Do you –” Rose stops, licks her lips, and begins again. “Do you remember that, too?”

He gives Joanie another push. “Remember falling from up there,” he points at where Rose is sitting. “During construction? Yeah. I told you about how I could see the cast before, but I know how I got it now.”

Forcing her voice to remain casual, Rose replies, “Are you remembering a lot more, then?”

The Doctor shrugs, uncomfortable, like saying it aloud will make it stop. “Bits and pieces. It’s coming so fast though, some things I hardly notice. Like your jumper, I just grabbed it, and then I remembered why.”

She pushes herself up, climbing down the ladder to wrap him in a hug. “That’s good,” she says and feels it right down to her bones. “That’s a good sign.”

Joanie tires of the swing shortly after, and the Doctor helps her down the slide a few times before they troop back into the house. He points at the garden on the way back in. “Gonna need to have another wee in that,” he says, grinning. “It looks like the foxes have come back.”

~~~~~

The grocery store this time is full of a lot less drama. For one, it’s a store he vaguely remembers – he knows where his favorite crisps are, and knows just which chocolate bar to grab Rose from the aisle with the sweets.

There’s more though. Joanie in the trolley, happily gnawing on the plastic of a pack of biscuits – they’d tried to take them away, distract her with something else, but the tantrum wasn’t it worth it, and they’d both given in.

There’s Mrs. Knopfler from three doors down, struggling with a heavy bag of dog kibble until he sweeps into help.

“Maybe it’ll stop that damn dog barking,” he tells Rose when he returns. “If his mouth’s too full.”

Rose just grins at him.

When they get home, pulling off coats and jumpers and hoodies, he insists on pasta for dinner again. Something in him wants to recreate those memories, poke at them a little bit more, and Rose meets him halfway – not spaghetti, but macaroni and cheese instead.

He throws noodles anyway, to Joanie’s complete delight, and when they finally settle in at the table, it feels like something else has settled entirely – this unrest he’s feeling, all the confusion and strain and frustration, it’s dissipating so rapidly he can hardly keep up.

They play in the living room after eating, and when Rose finds a channel broadcasting coverage of their vlog, Joanie is riveted, shrieking happily at the screen, pointing at herself and trying to mimic the faces she’d made.

It’s tiring work for an almost-two year old, and the Doctor volunteers to change her into her pajamas before Rose puts her to bed.

He tries to get comfortable on the sofa, moving his feet on and off the coffee table as he waits for Rose to return.

There’s a weird sort of air – a crackling he’s been trying to ignore. He and Rose, back in their house, everything quiet and dark.

He knows, can guess, the sorts of things that happen in a house like this, at a time like this, little snatches of the past, a flash of skin, a muffled sigh. It hasn’t all come together yet though, and he wants – he wants to to be with Rose, like that, before it it does.

There’s enough memory, enough feeling behind it, to know that he’s not stopped appreciating her, loving her, in their normal life. But he can remember now, the complacency of routine, the way the two of them get shifted aside, for Joanie or for work, and he wants to give this to himself – to the man he is and the man he was and the man he won’t be anymore. And to the woman who stood beside all three of them.

If one good thing can come out of all of this, it’s a second chance at firsts with Rose, a chance to arm himself with a fresh set of memories about what she looks like, sounds like, the way she loves him so fiercely, a chance to show her he feels the same.

Now it’s just a matter of getting there, and a stray plea to the universe that Joanie will stay asleep long enough for them to enjoy it.

They’d tried, been so close a few times in the cottage, only to have a moan from Rose bleed into a cry from Joanie.

Rose had told him one night that it was a disruption of Joanie’s routine that had her rousing so frequently, promising that their daughter was actually a very good sleeper. He hopes, now that she’s back in familiar surroundings, that holds true.

Plus, they have a bed now, one that isn’t situated right next to the spot where Joanie’s sleeping. There’s no need to fumble around on the sofa, cushions and pillows vying for space alongside limbs and cramped angles.

He’s debating whether it’s too forward, or whether she’ll think it means he’s knackered, if he moves to the bedroom now, when Rose joins him in the living room.

“Sleeping like a baby,” she tells him and he wrinkles his nose. “A very, very tired baby, one who probably won’t wake for anything.”

She crosses the room, moving toward him on the sofa.

“Even,” she says slowly, and he can’t help the way his eyebrows raise, “The sound of the telly.”

He feels deflated as she bounces down next to him on the cushions of the sofa, reaching for remote and turning the television on.

It was probably too much to hope for, too presumptuous, and he forces himself to be content with the way she situates herself – her head in his lap, one hand tucked under his thigh and the other on his knee.

His fingers fall to her hair, nails scratching lightly at her scalp as she sighs and burrows deeper into him.

If this is all he has before the memories come crashing back, it’ll be enough.

One program turns to another, nighttime dramas, and he tests himself, trying to remember plots and storylines from the time he’s missing. It’s not as hard as it was a few weeks ago and he’s able to coax things from his mind, slowly, asking Rose for confirmation when he’s unsure.

During a particularly long break for ads, she rolls in his lap, staring up at him and tilting her face for a kiss.

He means for it to be a short thing, but she maneuvers her hands out, catching his head as he goes to retreat, moving the kiss into something longer, something more promising.

Her fingers thread through his hair as she opens her mouth underneath his, and he slips his tongue against hers, sliding it into her mouth smoothly, even as the angle starts to wear on his neck.

When he’s forced to pull back, his mind still not used to a body that seems to ache just a bit quicker, the sight of Rose beneath him sets his heart racing.

Mouth wet and cheeks flushed, hair spread out across his legs, she’s a perfect little vixen, and she’s his.

She gives him a slow smile, sitting up and turning to face him, “Do you care how EastEnders ends?” She gestures at the telly, where the show has returned.

“Not even a little bit,” he says. “And I’m sure your mum could fill me in, if I did.”

There’s a burst of memories, ones he’d just as soon leave behind, of hours spent in Jackie’s kitchen, her nattering on about all sorts of EastEnders rubbish, and Rose elbows him, tongue between her teeth, like she knows exactly what he’s thinking.

“She could and she will,” Rose tells him, reaching for the remote and turning the television. “You should at least enjoy your time now, then.”

He nods, resigned to his sentence.

“Do you have any suggestions?” she asks. “Better make it good.”

It’s all there, right on the tip of his tongue, the words, the ideas, everything he wants to do and say, but there’s just enough uncertainty left in him that he can’t push them out.

He feels silly, they’d gone further than this at the cottage, and the presence of Joanie would indicate they’d gone exactly where he wants to go at least once, but he feels like his footing’s off, now that everything’s just a few steps away.

“I have a thought,” Rose says. “What if we went to bed?”

He arches an eyebrow, the words still all tangled in his throat, but it’s enough, and she understands his question.

“Not for sleeping,” she says, her voice laced with promise.

It seems suddenly vital that she understand he’s not exactly the same man yet, that she understand he might not remember every spot, every place that’ll make her squirm. He’s sure they’re in his head, locked away somewhere, and though he hopes they’ll come back to him as he goes, he doesn’t want her to be disappointed.

“I want to,” he says quietly. “I want to a lot, but I don’t – I can’t – I won’t know –” The words are broken up, knotting around themselves, and what if it is better to wait?

“I’ll tell you,” she says. “I’ll tell you and I’ll show you. We’ll figure out it, together.”

And with that she takes his hand, and leads him to their bedroom.

It’s dark, only the moonlight in the room, and it’s not going to work, not for all the showing, and the telling. He moves to the lamp on his side of the bed, pulling at the chain with his eyes locked on hers.

She gives him an impish little grin and saunters to her side of the bed, situating herself neatly on top of the covers.

He does the same, matching her prim movements, and she’s still grinning at him.

“You know, Doctor,” she drawls, turning to face him on the pillow. “I’m pretty sure you’d done this before you met me.”

He shakes his head, scandalized, “Me? No, certainly not, innocent as new-fallen snow, I was. It was you, Rose Tyler. You defiled me, turned me into some sort of pervert, I’m sure of it.”

She laughs and reaches for him. “Get over here, you pervert.”

He moves over her, sliding easily between her legs and bracing his weight on his forearms as he drops his head down to kiss her.

It’s only been a few minutes since the sofa, but he can’t wait, not anymore, and he slides his tongue against her lips, slipping it past them as she opens her mouth. It’s messy and fast and she’s arching up underneath him, her legs locking around his hips and keeping him in place.

He’s hard almost embarrassingly fast, and he can tell the exact moment she notices because she grins against his mouth, pulling back as her tongue touches to her teeth.

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard about this,” she says. “Younger men and their lack of control.” She taps the back of his head where her fingers are curled into his hair. “Still practically a teenager in here.”

He moves his mouth to her neck, growling into it, “I’ll show you ‘a teenager,’” and he bites down, sucking at the skin as she squirms underneath him.

She lines up the angle of their hips perfectly, hands moving to his arse as she pulls him down, and he can’t stop the groan the friction causes.

“Was that it? Did you lose it in your jeans?” she teases, even through the light pant her breathing’s acquired.

He shoves himself up and slides down her body. “For that, Rose Tyler, you’re gonna lose your own jeans.” His fingers find the button, undoing it quickly and lowering the zip. She lifts her hips, helping him to get them off and he takes a second to tug off her socks, too, before he throws the whole lot into a pile on the floor.

His fingers dance along the inside of her leg, up her calf, past her knee and across her thigh, skirting along the edges of her knickers.

“Think you skipped a base, slugger,” she says, and the words are barely out of her mouth before he’s got his free hand up, palming her breast.

“Did I?” He swipes his thumb across the nipple he can feel hardening beneath the fabric, and then he’s moving the hand at her knickers up, sliding between the mattress and her back. He unhooks the clasp of her bra though her shirt on the first try, pausing to loom his face over hers.

“And I suppose that was luck, was it?” His hands smooth up under her shirt, palming the skin of her waist before journeying higher, across her ribs.

“Even a broken clock’s right twice a day,” she says, but it’s lost to a gasp as he slips his hands under her bra, too, lightly pinching both nipples in tandem.

Her hands scramble for the bottom of his t-shirt, tugging it up, and he has to get his hands free to take it off. He stretches his arms above his head and pulls it free, Rose’s fingers scratching across his chest, the light dusting of hair there.

“See?” she says. “Smooth like a teenager.”

He rocks back onto his knees. “Hey! That’s not going to change, you know.”

She skirts her fingers lower, tracing the lines of his ribs. “Guess I’ll just have to get used to it again,” she says, and moves her hands to his fly. She charts the length of him under the denim with her fingers and he pushes into her hand.

“You figure out a sexy way to get these off,” she says, “and I promise I won’t call your prowess into question again.”

There’s not actually a sexy way for him to get out of his jeans, not that he’s found, but he does love a challenge, and he shifts off of her, moving to stand beside the bed.

He locks his gaze to hers, fingers edging under the button of his jeans, and he can’t stop himself from pressing the heel of his palm down against his erection.

“Take your shirt off,” he says, and, oh, that’s promising, the way her eyes widen slightly at the command in his voice. “Bra, too,” he adds and she hustles to comply, not wanting to miss whatever it is he’s going to do with fabric over her eyes.

She reclines back against the pillows when she’s done – Rose, in only her knickers, on their bed, and he lets out a slow breath at the sight.

He hasn’t got a plan, can’t quite figure out how he’s going to do this, and he holds his hand up. “This doesn’t count, okay?” He reaches down to tug his socks off and Rose grins at him.

“I don’t know,” she says. “That was pretty sexy, if you ask me.”

He forces an edge to his voice, an experiment, “Nobody asked you.”

It lands perfectly, Rose’s eyebrows raising and he watches as a flush overtakes her cheeks.

Well, this is definitely promising.

“Turn over,” he says and she smirks at him, challenging. “Now.”

She sucks in a breath and complies, flipping to her stomach, and angling her head on the pillow to look at him.

When did he discover this, he wonders, and was he as delighted the first time as he is now?

He presses down on his erection again, the movement lazy, and his throat goes dry at the way Rose’s eyes are riveted to his hand.

“Up on your hands and knees, face front,” he says, and this is it, this is his shot, and if she doesn’t go along with it, he’s going to be twisting and hopping out of his jeans in full view of her.

Her gaze flickers from his hand to his eyes and back again and he gives himself a squeeze that’s more for her benefit. With his free hand, he draws his index finger up through the air, “Up,” he says and this time she listens.

As soon as her head is turned back toward the headboard, his hands are on his fly, button and zip undone as quickly as he can manage around his erection. He shucks his jeans down his legs, no pretense of finesse, and he’s just popped up from stripping them off his feet when Rose turns her head back toward.

“Cheater!”

He smiles slow and toothy, kneeling on the bed, and scooting to fit himself behind her, pressing into the curve of her bum through the material still between them.

“You said, ‘find a sexy way to get my jeans off.’” He runs his hands across the expanse of her back, mapping the ridges of her spine, before pressing his palm flat against the base of it and forcing her down onto her elbows. “I think that was pretty sexy.”

He arches into her and she rocks back to meet him, both of them sighing with the feel of it.

“I’m gonna take these off now,” he says, fingers slipping under the sides of her knickers and tugging them down to where she rests on her knees.

There’s just enough space between her thighs in this position for him to fit his hand between them, trailing his fingers up until he meets a short thatch of hair and presses past it. Other hand still on the small of her back, he presses her down on to his fingers, groaning in tandem with Rose as they slide easily into her.

He sets a loose, languorous rhythm, enjoying the way she arches her head back on her neck every time he drops a finger to sweep her across her clit.

There’s a knowledge there, a blueprint in the back of his mind, and he knows exactly what it would take to bring her to the edge and topple her over it. He sets it aside for now, happy enough to know that it’s there, and sets about deliberately teasing her, twining the hand not inside of her in her hair.

He gives it a few experimental tugs, entranced by the hiss she lets out each time he does it. He widens his stance a little, moving his hand to her cheek and turning her head enough that he can kiss her, tongues tangling, as his fingers continue their languid rhythm.

She pulls back abruptly, baring her teeth at him in a way that transfixes him and stops the movement of his hand.

“If she wakes up before we finish this because you were so busy taking your time,” she growls. “I’ll –”

He grins, nipping at her chin, before removing both hands from her, dropping down to stretch out alongside her.

“You’ll what?” he challenges. “Stay in here and get yourself off, while I tend to our daughter?”

She moves quickly to get her knickers the rest of the way off and straddle him, a frustrated groan when she realizes he’s still wearing his pants.

“I just might,” she says and moves down the length of his body, tugging his boxer briefs off a little rougher than his cock would like.

“Well, we’ll have to hurry it up then, won’t we?” he says, shifting his pants from his ankles and off as he leans down to haul her back up his body by her biceps.

She positions herself over him, hovering just out of reach, and he’s struck with memories of the times they’ve done this before – the tour bus and hotels, dressing rooms and, oh, god, Jackie’s living room.

“We’ve shagged in your mother’s living room?” He can’t stop the words, breathy as they are, and then she’s sinking down on him, hissing out her reply, “Yesss.”

Somewhere he lost whatever control she’d been allowing him to have – and he’s under no illusion she’d have let him get away with so much if she hadn’t been enjoying herself – but he wants to do this. Wants to prove that he can make her come, not let her get herself there as she rides him.

Wrapping his arms around her back, he pulls her down to his chest and rolls them, so she’s pinned underneath him.

He props himself up on his elbows, dropping a line of wet, open-mouthed kisses up from her shoulder, her neck, her lips, and back again, as he begins moving his hips shallowly against hers.

“Yes,” she says again, voice rising as he arches into her. “Fuck yes.”

“Keep it down, Shouty McShouterson,” he tips his forehead to hers and grins. “There’s a baby sleeping.”

She moves her hands, one knotting roughly in his hair and the other curving into the skin of his back, nails and pleasure and pain enough that he cries out.

“You keep it down,” she says, and bites the join of his neck and shoulder, drawing another groan from low in his chest as his hips buck into hers.

He builds a solid rhythm then, their mouths nipping wherever they can reach as their hips move together.

“I seem to recall,” he pants, aborting the sentence as she arches to meet him on a thrust. “I mean, I remember,” he tries again, “That you like it when I do this,” and he moves back enough to fit a hand between them, fingers rubbing at her clit.

She moans at the contact, the friction, but then she’s batting his hand away, moving his arm out and curling her own around around his back.

“Don’t need it,” she says, “Keep going, keep going.”

He moves in earnest now, pumping into her erratically, fingers twisting into the sheets below her as he lets out a string of curses not fit for a sailor, let alone a parent.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he’s panting, straining, reaching, “I’m close, go, come, fuck,” it’s a jumble of nonsense and it’s mixing with her own, words of filth he’s sure he’s never heard before because he would definitely remember Rose Tyler commanding him to make her come.

And then he does, she’s arching into him, clawing at his back and she groans out her climax in his ear. It’s too much and he can’t hold out, following after her with a few more short, hard thrusts and a grunt to wake the neighbors.

He tenses above her, feels her do the same, as they both listen for any sound from Joanie. It’s ridiculous, buried inside of Rose, both of them buzzing in the aftermath of their frankly pretty impressive orgasms, worried they’ve woken their daughter.

If this is domestic, he doesn’t know what he was so afraid of.

It’s a slow process to finally get to sleep, both of them redressing and using the loo, a final check on Joanie, who’s sleeping soundly in her crib, and then they’re finally tangled together in the sheets.

“It’s always like that, is it?” His voice is a murmur, muffled by her hair as her head rests on his chest.

She tilts to look at him, a slow smile spreading across her face as she shakes her head.

“No, not always,” she says. “Sometimes it’s better,” and his mind fills with even more memories, some prurient, some not. It’s a steady current now, like something unpacking, slow and seamless, and it won’t be too long until it’s all returned, he can tell.

As Rose snuggles back down against him, a contented sigh escaping her lips, he can’t wait to remember to the rest.


End file.
